


Carpe Noctem

by manonrose284



Series: The God Killers [2]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Abuse, Backstory, Camp Half-Blood (Percy Jackson), Camp Jupiter (Percy Jackson), Character Death, Character Study, Dark Past, Dark Percy, Dark Percy Jackson, Dark!Percy, Deathfic, Demigods, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, God Killers, Heavy Angst, Hurt Nico di Angelo, Hurt Percy Jackson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Iris Message (Percy Jackson), M/M, Night Terrors, Not Canon Compliant - The Blood of Olympus (Heroes of Olympus), Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Post-Tartarus (Percy Jackson), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prophecy, Sleep Deprivation, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 106,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24817876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manonrose284/pseuds/manonrose284
Summary: Welcome to Carpe Noctem (Seize the Night)This is the dark continuation of Fractured Darkness and will make zero sense if you haven't read it before this :)Please heed all warnings in the tags
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Aphrodite/Ares (Percy Jackson), Aphrodite/Hephaestus (Percy Jackson), Apollo/Icarus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Artemis/Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Hades/Persephone (Percy Jackson), Hazel Levesque/Frank Zhang, Hera/Zeus (Percy Jackson), Jason Grace/Piper McLean, Nico di Angelo/Will Solace
Series: The God Killers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795147
Comments: 150
Kudos: 224





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're here for Carpe Lucem (light ending), I should have that posted by Sunday. If you're here for Carpe Noctem, enjoy your stay <3

Pandemonium

The infirmary was utter pandemonium.

When the injured Greeks started being carted in from the battle, Will had slipped into that zone where his mind was clearest and glove covered hands calmest. His siblings had been preparing for this for weeks, and the influx of wounded demigods pushed the infirmary's capacity to the limits, but that underlying organization remained. An infrastructure of healing and efficiency was what the children of Apollo knew best— at least those of them who preferred a scalpel and medical reports to a bow and book of haiku's.

It had been a relief when the injured Romans began filing in as well— a relief because they looked much worse off than the Greeks, but more importantly that their presence meant that Nico had made it, that the Parthenos had worked. With considerable effort, Will kept the information tucked deep in his heart, and the knowledge that his boyfriend was home fueled Will's concentration. He had a job to do. Hazel would get Nico and Reyna here when she could. He just hoped it was soon. Before he could get weighed down with worry as the seconds turned to minutes with still no sign of the Nico, Reyna or any of the Seven, a large group of Romans stepped into the bustling hive of curtain separated rooms and blond, tan healers. But these Romans weren't here to seek treatment. Will saw them standing in the doorway, being pushed aside by his siblings to help more injured demigods through and into the dwindling empty rooms. Will made his way across the entryway, eyes narrowing at the one who seemed the group's leader.

Healer to healer, son of Apollo and daughter of Phoebus.

Armor dull with grime and dark earth and red splatters, the Roman stood eye level to Will. Her features were harsh, skin not the color of chocolate but more like that of leather armor or of mahogany hilted daggers. Those eyes reminded him of Nico's but there was no gold flecked in them, nothing but levelheaded calculation as she tilted her head with an awkward curtness that told Will she was more used to battle and field medicine than patients and human interaction.

"Twenty healers," she jerked her head to the demigods flanking her. Exhaustion was clear in their eyes, but their shoulders were thrown back, chins high. Ready to serve. "Give us a job. It will be done."

She extended an arm covered in the same evidence of war as her armor and shoes. Will removed his glove and took it. It seemed as though the entire infirmary paused as one, all bearing witness to the unity that echoed that strange ripple they'd all felt moments before.

"Sterilize best you can," Will said, breaking the grip. He called out to his sister Kayla and asked if she'd please get the newcomers integrated into their system as quick as possible. Will made to turn away with a grim smile readying himself to return to the fray of the injured but paused long enough to meet each member of the group's eyes and say, "Thank you."

A curt nod was their only reply before they all turned to Kayla who led them deeper into the infirmary for disinfection.

Once they were gone, Will let out a tense breath as he headed to a nearby sink to clean of the blood and grime so he could grab a fresh pair of gloves. Still no signs of Nico.

The wounded and those who helped to bring them in were mostly quiet save for moans or grunts of pain and labored breathing. Will's ears strained for any news regarding Nico as scalding water rushed over his hands. The skin was raw from washing so many times already, but he barely registered the discomfort.

He'd just slipped on a new pair of blue gloves when a son of Ares burst through the double doored entrance. It had been Annabeth's suggestion to leave a squadron of Ares campers and a few children of Apollo skilled in archery behind and have them stationed outside of the infirmary in the event Echidna breached Camp Half-Blood's invisible boarder walls. Everything went quiet as he bellowed out, "Something's happening in the field! Look out the windows!"

Will raced across the room to the far side, launching himself at the nearest windowsill, all around him demigods both injured and healthy, both Roman and Greek, did the same.

But there was nothing.

Literally nothing.

Like a curtain drawn or a veil hung, beyond the invisible walls shielding the Camp grounds was nothing.

Nothing but pitch-black darkness.

No one spoke, no one moved. A collective breath was held as treatments halted and even the wounded went silent.

And when the hushed murmurs— mostly prayers to the gods for those still on the battlefield— began to fill the infirmary, a voice whispered beside him, "What in Jupiter's name is that?"

Will didn't take his eyes from the phenomena but knew it was the Roman healer from before who'd spoken. The Ares campers stationed outside the infirmary had their weapons ready in confused determination, the Apollo campers with arrows knocked and their bows drawn in weary fear, but as Will gazed into the distant nothingness, he knew.

Knew because the darkness wasn't nothing.

It felt like home.

It called to him.

"Nico," Will whispered more to himself than the Roman at his side. His stomach rolled, unease washing over him. His hands— always steady, always confident— began to shake with tremors. Because what he was witnessing, what they were all witnessing….

God Killer

That's what Reyna had told he and Annabeth and Jason and Hazel and Leo and Frank and Piper. But not Percy. They hadn't told Percy. The thought, the fear that struck him at the thought, was pushed aside as the darkness suddenly began to recede. Will couldn't see anything past the tree line and the sheer distance separating him from the battlefield and he let out a curse for the lack of visibility. All he knew was that the pitch-black power was no longer filling the sky, choking the morning sun's rays. That blue cloudless sky was revealed once more and Will gripped the windowsill so tightly he felt it groan beneath his grip. Because it took every ounce of his being to keep from running the impossible distance to find Nico.

Instead he spit out another curse and tore his hands that had stopped their shaking from the ledge. His siblings needed him, these wounded soldiers needed him, everyone needed him. So despite the dagger of fear sunk deep in his chest, despite the desperation and yearning and agony bleeding invisible torrents down his body, Will forced that mask over his features. Reassurance and calm clear on his face, Will addressed the silent infirmary. It was an effort not to choke on the pain, to not grit his teeth or clench his jaw at the phantom blade twisting in his chest with every word, but he kept his voice even and warm. Even managed a slight smile of encouragement. His words eased the space and after another heartbeat of silence, the healers launched back into action.

Feeling a lingering gaze, Will turned to see the daughter of Phoebus stare unflinchingly as he met those irises. With a curt nod that felt of respect and a knowing glint to her eye, she headed back to her assigned station.

Will glanced back out the window one last time, again seeing nothing but treetops and a radiant morning sun high in the blue sky, and turned around. Heading for the private room that had been reserved in the very back of the infirmary— the largest space in the entire building, complete with two beds and two of his siblings waiting patiently— Will had just begun to part the curtain when a cry burst from the way he'd just come.

"WILL!"

The son of Apollo tore through the hall, demigods jumping out of his path as he bounded across the wood floors. Because that was Hazel's voice. It was her shattered scream that echoed in the hallway, echoed in his ears, echoed in his heart. It was desperate. It was a plea. Will ran faster. And when he got to the main entryway—

Static filled his head, cotton his ears, ice his veins

Hazel was swaying but didn't let go of Reyna who was shivering violently with what looked to be burnout, and Nico….

Reyna slipped through Hazel's grasp and collapsed to the floor. The Praetor did not rise.

Not two heartbeats had passed when the rest of the Seven burst through the door, Frank's labored breathing and Percy's dripping wound filled the silence. But Will couldn't hear anything— not even his own shouts, his own commands— as the Roman healers went for Reyna while Jason, Percy, and Annabeth quickly reached down before racing to follow Will.

Pandemonium

Nico reaching out weakly as he was carried, reaching out for Will who was fighting tears as he took the frigid hand

it was pandemonium.

* * *

  
  


Curtains were thrown back— nearly ripping the soundproofing material from the hinges— seconds before Percy, Annabeth, and Jason rushed through and gently laid Nico atop the nearest of the two empty cots. Will had ordered Reyna be taken to a separate room until she woke, and before he could even get the words out, the two of his siblings who’d been waiting were removing the second bed to grant more space to the now crowded room as the Seven hurriedly filed in.

Will yelled out commands like a war general and around him, his siblings burst into action. Together they made a steady, confident unit tighter than any army. 

Nico’s eyes were struggling to stay open and there were incomprehensible sounds escaping his trembling lips as he began choking for air. One word had Will’s sister placing an oxygen line under his nose and another had his brother adjusting the bed to elevate Nico slightly. But the bleeding… even Will’s siblings who’d been at his side healing the most morbid of injuries swayed at it all. 

The sight of Nico’s chest obliterated Will.

Because those were deep gashes spanning the length of his upper body. And blood wasn’t the only thing pouring from those lesions at a sickening rate. Because those were shadows— thick fluid-like smoke that seeped from each gash and clung to the crimson tides. The skin itself was in tatters, jagged from what must have been serrated… claws? That’s what the caverns looked like. 

Will’s heart skipped a beat. The single moment lasting what felt like hours as he remembered the iris message all those days ago when Will had told Nico about finding their dream home… and how Nico had admitted to having a recurring night terror… something about claws. The memory felt like a hot, burning coal in Will’s mind but he put that all aside. He didn’t know what happened out there other than the wall of darkness. It didn’t matter though, nothing mattered but Nico laying atop the cot, shadows bleeding out of him through each lesion as rapidly as the rivers of plasma.

“Father,” Will pleaded, not knowing if he was talking aloud or just begging in his head. “ _Father, please_.”

For ten soul-crushing seconds, nothing happened. A whole ten seconds where, like ink, the dark smoking blood seeped from him. Will bit out a curse that under different circumstances would’ve made Hazel— and maybe even Frank— blanch, but finally, finally a faint glow was cast throughout the room.

The light pouring from Will brightened and his whole body became stiflingly, yet comfortingly warm as his father’s blessing wrapped around him. His muscles tensed with the new strength, his mind sharpened as any trace of exhaustion was decimated. He sent up a broken thank you, the only answer being a radiant pulse that fed the light beneath his palms. 

Each scrape and shallow cut slowly pulled together and he could actually _feel_ the tissue weaving back together in some heightened sixth sense. Beneath his hands, Nico thrashed uncontrollably at the sensation of muscle and tissue mending, and at the scorching burn of light being forced into his essence so wholly constructed of shadows and darkness and cold. There would be consequences to this reduction of what seemed to be Nico’s life force, Will was sure of it, but they could deal with that later. When the son of Death wasn’t so close to that lethal edge.

Will held in a breath as power corded through him and he watched the mildest of all the claw marks start to close. But before it could seal shut completely, or even move on to the other deeper gouges, everything stopped. 

Ink like darkness and blood began pouring from those four deepest gashes in a torrent. It wasn’t enough. The blessing of Apollo _wasn’t enough_. Fear gripped Will as his heart rate plummeted so fast he nearly fainted. The blessing hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t worked. 

He swayed on his feet, shaking his head with bared teeth and pressed harder into the wounds despite the yelp and whimpering agony that poured from those angelic lips. 

_No_

_No no no no this can’t be happening. It’s just a nightmare. It’s not real this can’t be happening. This—_

Then there was a hand, weak and trembling, resting on his wrist. Nico’s eyes were pleading and tear stained, his complexion pale and faintly translucent as he said hoarsely, “Will.”

“I know it hurts but just— j-just stay with me, you're doing great.” Will tried to keep his voice strong, tried to keep the tremor from his voice, from his hands. Neither had ever failed him, and he'd be damned if they did now. Of course he always cared about his patients well-being, but this was different. This was _Nico_. The man he’d planned a future with. The man he loved more than life itself. The man whose life was pouring through Will’s fingers with each breath more shallow than the last.

" _Will_ ," this time the plea was desperate, a mere rasp of shattered breath. The healer removed his hands from the gore.

“W-why are you stopping?” Percy stammered from somewhere behind him. “Will?!”

But the healer was stepping back with raised hands that were no longer glowing with anything but blood. He stepped back with wide eyes. But no tears. Never tears. He was a doctor. He was a healer, he healed things it was in the name. But this…

“It’s not enough,” he breathed in disbelief. “The blessing… it isn’t enough. There’s too much darkness. Too many shadows. Too much blood.”

“Let me try,” Will didn’t have to turn around to know there was a dangerous glint to Percy’s features as he said, “I have to try.”

Though it pained him more than any being could ever know, Will shook his head. “Even if you could stop the bleeding, the tissue isn’t closing. He’ll die of infection within hours."

Hazel brought a hand to her mouth to muffle the sobs as her breath hitched. Percy's vision grew blurry from the tears welling in each wide eye. This couldn’t be happening.

_Not like this_

_Please no pleasepleaseplease_

Will cursed himself for the little knowledge he had about God Killers. Were they a different species all together? Were their biological systems different from a regular demigod? The rolling fog of darkness told him yes. And for a single moment, Will’s heart was frozen with fear. Because for the first time in his life as a demigod, as a cabin leader, as a healer, as a doctor… he had no idea what to do. Because if the blessing of Apollo had done little against the dark shadows that clung to every drop of blood… 

If he had time, he’d run tests and take samples; if he had time, he’d consult with Annabeth and his siblings, pour over the findings for hours to find a solution; if he had time, he’d track down the Fates and do whatever they wanted for answers. But he had no time. He had no test results. He had no answers. He had no solutions. Will had never in his entire life felt so useless, so soul crushingly worthless.

Percy saw the hesitation and staggered forward, his eyes trained on Nico as he spoke to Will. “Let me try," he begged again, " _please, Will._ "

It was Annabeth who launched forward, grabbing Percy's wrists and jerking harshly to make him face her. “No. You made me promise not to let you, I won’t break that. And _think_ , you could lose control.” He looked like he’d try again so Annabeth sucked in a sharp breath and struck him with her words, “You could kill him, Percy.”

The God Killer faltered. He backed down. All eyes turned back to Nico.

Nico who looked up at them all, struggling to keep his vision focused. Because despite his ravaged body and the lashing pain, he could sense an absence. Reyna. Where was Reyna? Will noticed him scanning the room and confirmed Nico’s worst fear hoarsely, “She hasn’t woken up yet. The burnout… she won’t recover for at least a day.”

That struck Nico harder than the claws had. 

It was an effort for him to tilt his head in even the slightest of nods— not just from the agony of his parted flesh. His best friend… he'd never had one, and neither had she. He hoped she could find it in herself to trust again, to find someone who was worthy of her, a friend that would be better than him. A friend who would never leave her side. During all the time they’d spent together, Nico had actually let himself cling to the hope that it could be him. It could be him who was the friend she needed. Breathing became even more difficult, each rise and fall of the mess that was his chest felt like drinking the Styx and inhaling the acrid air of Tartarus simultaneously. 

He was at least comforted knowing she had his ring— that hopefully she wouldn't forget him, forget those soft moments they'd shared, the vulnerability of trust, and the peace of the silence. But also comforted by the promise that had been sworn to him— both of them. One for his best friend. And one for his brother.

With a turn of his neck that sent his head throbbing, Nico jerked his gaze from Will to Percy. His hand twitched, the effort of raising it a Herculean effort. Percy got on his knees beside the cot, lowering himself so that Nico could more easily find his mark. The son of Poseidon's brows stitched together in confusion before melting at the touch of Nico's scarred palm against his cheek.

In the back of his mind, Nico registered how messed up it was to bring his own blood coated palm to Percy’s face, but he had to. Had to feel his brother. Had to feel the other God Killer. All these weeks, Nico had felt a pit of emptiness, small and shallow, but there and yearning. But now, now that they were reunited at last… that emptiness was finally whole. 

Every molecule in his body screamed for death and Nico sensed it nearing, could tell his time was almost up. And part of him wanted to grab Percy's hand and beg him to take care of everyone with his dying breaths—to watch over Hazel and Will and Reyna and Jason. The other part of him needed to rest a hand on Percy's cheek and beg him not to succumb to the full extent of his powers, to not fulfill Nico's visions of Olympus falling at the hands of Percy Jackson. And a smaller part of him, barely a whisper in his mind, yearned to plead for vengeance, for justice. But Nico spoke not of these wishes, because he could see through the windows of Percy's sea green eyes a glimpse into the grief that would soon suffocate the son of Poseidon. And Nico couldn’t bring himself, not even in his final moments, to burden the demigod with anything more. So he simply held that bloodied palm to Percy’s cheek for a moment more. And when that moment ended, Percy forced himself to rise and move aside— but only just enough for Will to kneel and take his place.

Will placed a gentle hand atop Nico’s heart. He could barely feel a pulse, but tried to swallow past the lump in his throat anyway.

“Please don’t leave me, Nico. Please don’t make me do this on my own… stay,” his voice broke into a half sob, “ _stay_.”

Nico took in all that was William Solace— memorized every line, every freckle. The pain exploding from his chest was nothing compared to the agonizing realization of leaving behind such suffering. And then Nico met their eyes— the eyes of his friends, his family. Took one last moment to memorize their features as well.

The sister he'd never gotten to truly know and who he'd made a promise not to let her feel the impending loss. The brother he owed answers to and had wanted to venture through the unknown together… and the soulmate he would never get to watch walk down the aisle towards him or walk hand in hand beneath the threshold of that cottage house of their dreams or paint the white picket fence together or tuck their children in and tell them stories of heroes and quests and shield them from the evils of the world with their own darkness. The love of his life that he'd been separated from by oceans and countries and endless miles for months… he'd never get to make up for the lost time. And the best friend that he was about to abandon without a single goodbye. Each thought settled inside him like shards of broken glass.

Nico always thought he'd arrive at his death with comfort and peace— happiness even. That he'd be able to go out with willing acceptance of his fate. But now that it was happening, now that he could feel his spirit expelling from his body, Nico still wasn't afraid of death, but he was furious. He was desperate to hold on. To stay. To live.

Live

He wanted to live

It struck him with an unrelenting agony sharper than any claw, more potent than any pain that ravaged his body.

Nico di Angelo, the son of Death itself, wanted to live.

Tears were streaming down Will’s face and he wiped them away roughly. Nico hated that he was the cause, hated it with a ferocity he’d never known, even as Will whispered out, “I love you.”

Nico wanted to say it back, wanted to so badly that the ache of not having the strength to do so nearly rivaled the agony ripping through him. He could feel himself fading, feel his spirit drifting away, but with claws sharper than those that had gouged him, Nico held on. Held on long enough to look around at his family, to remember their faces, to remember how he felt looking at them each. With a whisper of a smile, he closed his eyes on them all. He held on tighter, clamping down on reality enough to say with one last rasp a command. The first, the last, the only command he’d ever give. The single word, laced with love and loss and fear and anguish rang throughout the room.

“Live.”

With one final wheezing breath, he released the claws and let go.

Nico di Angelo

— son of Hades,

Survivor of Tartarus,

Unifier of two worlds,

Prince of Shadows,

God Killer—

was dead.

*************

  
  


They all stood numb, feeling the life descend even without the broken cry Hazel let out as she felt it. Felt her brother die, pass to the other side.

“No no no he promised me he _promised!_ B-before leaving…. before making t-that first jump h-he _promised!!"_

Her hands shook, legs trembling though her core was impossible frozen and empty as he slid through her metaphysical grasp that she couldn’t even sob; the anguish was trapped inside her. She collapsed against Frank, the broken sounds escaping her wavering lips incomprehensible. Somewhere in the distance, a sound filled the air.

Ms. O’Leary’s howl shook the infirmary's walls, the wood creaking and groaning in harmonic anguish, as it was announced to the universe:

Nico di Angelo was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags.  
> Heed the tags.  
> TW: mentions of a physically abusive relationship.
> 
> Oh and please please do not ever hesitate to request I tag something or provide more warnings. I will do my best to not blindside anyone by something jarring, and but if that ever happens accidentally please know it is not my intention and I only ask that you let me know so that I may resolve it :)
> 
> Okay, hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!  
> <3 <3 <3

_Live_

The word echoed through the room, and that piercing howl from somewhere beyond the infirmary walls with it. 

On his knees, Will’s head fell as he brought his forehead down to the cold hand still clasped within his own. Clamping his eyes shut, he breathed in. He breathed out. The Seven were in the room, he was vaguely aware, but none spoke and none reached for him. The room was stiflingly silent and deafeningly loud with that echoed word and the animalistic hellhound cries that began to grow hoarse. Will opened his eyes, staring at the pale hand so red with blood and rough with scars. Forcing his head to rise, Will took another moment to breathe in. To breathe out. And then he gently, slowly placed the hand onto the bed. He closed his eyes and breathed in. He opened them and breathed out. 

Will rose to his feet, refusing to look at the bed for a moment and instead gazing down at his own hands that had been too weak, too slow, too powerless. He wished he could cut them off. Instead he finally flicked his eyes to the bed, stomach instantly wrenching at the sight as his head began to feel too light and his heart too heavy. 

He’d seen death before, of course. Both from the battlefield and within this hallowed building. And of course it hurt each time— oh it cracked the very shell he kept locked around himself every time; the shell that allowed him to do this job, to heal the sick and mend the injured, to make life saving decisions with clarity and ease; the shell that protected himself from insanity as he watched demigods he cared for pass beneath his hands, their lives slipping through his fingers. But as he forced his eyes to take in the sight of Nico di Angelo his shadow, his angel, his soulmate, his universe… 

This was different. It wasn’t the fractured feeling of losing one of the campers, it wasn’t the sharp feeling of dragging a scalpel across his own skin above his heart. This was different. It wasn’t the death of someone he cared about, but the reckoning of a being he loved with all he had; all he was. So he looked at the blood, the rivers of crimson that had slowed to a trickling flow as they pooled up and gathered in the deep slashes that gouged flesh and muscle and bone. His eyes remained stuck on the deepest of them all, and in the reflection saw the future they’d always dreamed of…

A cottage house choked with vibrant flowers and glowing vines. A modest yard with a white picket fence, the grass freely growing but not unkempt. A barking dog, or at least that’s what the neighbors would see when the hellhound raced around the yard to chase the snickering squirrels. A porch with a chain fastened swing-bench made of onyx painted wood and adorned with golden pillows to match the wreath pinned on the door. And inside, a couch of worn leather so soft one could melt into it; two men with eyes that held dark shadows but gleamed brightly as they sat beside one another. Not demigods with suicide missions or monters or prophecies. Not half-bloods with obligations to gods who turned blind eyes to injustice and suffering. Not campers or healers or jumpers of shadows. Just two men who loved each other with equal fierceness, who had faced the unforgiving world and survived. Fame and glory, gold and treasures had not been their reward for such a feat; but they never had any need for any of that. Only each other. Only each other. And they were done, had left the life they’d been forced to grow in, and now knew nothing but freedom and the warmth of each other's presence and the incomprehensible love for the children nestled between them.

…. but that future, the one they’d planned for years between night terrors and quests was gone. 

_Gone_

And what made it so much worse— what stole the air from his lungs along with any desire to breathe— wasn’t the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in months; wasn’t that they had only gotten seconds to reunite. No. It was the fact that he… that Nico… hadn’t gotten to rest. For months he’d been destroying his body, pushing himself to the limit with so little sleep, to deliver the Parthenos in time. And right when he did, right when he was supposed to be whisked away to safety to sleep through the battle, he’d had to be a hero. Had to sacrifice himself. Had to save them all.

Will didn’t know what happened on the battlefield, didn’t know what had become of Echidna or her army of monsters. But he didn’t care. Not when his nose was clogged with the smell of Nico’s blood, blood that coated Will’s hands and arms all the way up both elbows. Coated in it. He was coated in Nico’s blood. 

Not really feeling the floor beneath his feet, Will turned around slowly, so slowly. His vision was a haze through the tears fighting their way to the surface, burning with the need to be shed. And though he couldn’t make out the other demigods, he could make out one thing with absolute clarity.

Because it was on the left side of Percy’s face that a handprint marked— perfectly preserved in the blood of his brother from where Nico had pressed it. From when Nico had, with dying breaths, reached out to touch the fellow God Killer. Reached out to touch his brother one last time. 

It was that handprint, that thick red that matched the plasma coating Will’s own arms and hands that finally broke him.

Out

He had to get out 

The walls were closing in, the room getting smaller and smaller. He was suffocating, breathing in the metallic scent of crimson pain. 

Will ran, legs pumping, chest heaving. The sky above him was dark with thick storm clouds, a torrent of rain slamming against the invisible shield that protected the camp from such weather. But still he did not stop. He ran past the mess hall, past the cabins, past the Roman’s makeshift lodging of tents and the familiar Greek faces. He ran past them all, not caring as they saw the legendary healer tear across the shielded land with blood covering him. 

It was an unyielding downpour, as merciless as it’s master, but Will did not retreat once he passed beneath the archway. He kept running— even as rain slashed his face raw, even as instincts flashed fear of entering the unprotected forest, but he pushed it down. Monsters could come for him if they dared. He wouldn’t fight back.

Only when he was deep into the forest did Will halt. He closed his eyes, letting the drops wet his face and conceal the burning tears that cascaded down his cheeks. He didn’t have to look to know the warm blood be washed away by the savage bullets of rain, leaving him with nothing but cold, bare skin.

Deafening cracks of thunder erupted from high above in a way that seemed to roar. Will screamed back.

“DO IT! STRIKE ME DOWN YOU BASTARD!” The words ripped through him like shrapnel as he tilted his head to the sky and shrieked, “THERE IS NOTHING, _NOTHING_ MORE YOU CAN TAKE FROM ME!!”

Rain poured into his mouth as he bared his teeth, hoping the god could hear him as pure, untainted rage obliterated him, bringing the adored son of Apollo to his knees. Cold mud splashed as he sunk into it but it didn’t matter. _Nothing_ mattered. He could feel nothing but the emptiness in his heart.

And so, Will screamed.

Eyes shut, teeth bared, he shrieked; until the sound deafened him. 

Until he could no longer hear the thunder or himself— could only feel the vibrations of his bleeding throat and the begging of his lungs for breath that would not come. Until he could do nothing but collapse, becoming nothing more than a shivering heap among the cold mud and the pounding rain.

The end. The end of everything he was, everything he fought for and lived for. There was no light at the end of this tunnel. No escape from the darkness. 

There was no end.

And as Will slammed into the wall of exhaustion, he hoped no one came to find him.

* * *

“You idiot!” Hera roared, “Do you realize what you have done?!”

“I did what you told me to do!” Zeus bellowed, thunder booming beyond the castle walls as bolts of lightning flashed strobes of white light into their chambers through the massive windows. Beyond the glass— perfectly clear and void of even the slightest imperfections— dark, swollen clouds could be seen by which torrents of rain were being cast down to the mortal lands from the king’s rage. And yet, Hera was as unrelenting as the monsoon of her husband’s fury. 

“I told you to secure your throne, to maintain order,” she seethed through bared teeth, an action as familiar to her as breathing. “But I _do not_ _recall_ telling you to construct the child of Hades’ demise!” 

As the thunder bellowed and lightning cracked around the fortress, the prison of stone she’d been locked in for eons, Hera’s voice grew shrill to be heard over the maelstrom. The billowing fabric of her toga trashed in the air as she kept on Zeus’ heels.

“What if you evoke Persephone? What if Hades seeks retribution?” At that, Zeus halted so abruptly she nearly collided with him. The thunder paused, the lightning ceased. The room was plunged into darkness, for the blazing hearth and every candle within their cambers and the entire castle had been extinguished moments ago. They stood in the thick shadows with nothing but their labored breathing. Hera took half a step closer and whispered sharply, “The last time you killed one of his beloved children… how did that fare? Or have you already forgotten about your own daughter’s reckoning?”

Through the window panes, the sky began to lighten as the thick clouds dispersed and gave way to the radiant sun at its zenith. But the nearly blinding light that shone down onto Olympus did not seem to have it’s usual jovial or mischievous quality. It seemed almost an act of defiance. Hera gestured to the nearest window, pointing to the show of Apollo’s rebellion against Zeus who constantly threatened and punished the god for such demonstrations of his strength. 

“Do you realize what you have done?” she repeated as she lowered her hand from the sun and moved it instead towards the dead embers of the hearth. “Did you think about the repercussions of your actions? Better yet, did you think at all?!”

“Quiet, woman.” The God King’s voice was more growl than spoken word as he moved for the marble doors. Grim shadows clung to his features as he rumbled with a voice spiked with danger that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, “I have this under control.”

“Like Styx you do! Stripping the strongest demigods of their power, is that your plan??” The queen of the gods clapped, voice dripping with lethal doses of sarcasm more potent than any of Hecate’s poisons. Zeus froze by the door, palm stilling on the handle. “Wonderful plan, _your highness_. Removing the ability for your slaves to serve. Brilliant idea. Who is it that led the charge against Typhon and Kronos? Perseus Jackson. Who is it that ventured through Tartarus and sealed the Doors of Death? Perseus Jackson and Annabeth Chase. Who is it that defeated Echidna, her army, and prevented Gaea from rising? Nico di Angelo. Without them to do your bidding, you’ll be left to carry out these tasks on your own. And Fates be known that’s when the other gods would finally realize the full extent of your cowardice and inability to do anything besides bedding anything that walks.”

“SILENCE!” When he turned back towards her, there were storm clouds in his eyes. Each word was punctuated by a pounding step, crossing the room, closing the distance. “You will not speak to me this way, I am your KING!”

The queen of the gods parted her lips to roar back with bared teeth, but instead let out a sharp gasp as he struck her with expert precision. Hands and knees against the rough stone ground from catching herself, Hera rose. She brought abrased fingers up to her cheek, not needing a mirror to know what the sweltering mark looked like. Spitting blood to her husband’s feet, she turned regally, head held high with refined dignity despite what she recognized as a fractured jaw. The rays of sun did not reach her, did not warm her as she strode through the silent room, sat down at her vanity, and began to place creme colored powder on the mark as she’d done countless times in her long, long life. The lower half of her face radiated with splintering pain as her immortal blood worked to heal the break. She did not turn to him, did not meet his eyes that she felt on her through the mirror, only focused on keeping her words from slurring beneath the flashes of pain.

“Keep this up, and you won’t be for long.”

And the worst part was that both the king and the queen knew she was not referring to her shattered bone nor his aching palm. Without another word, the God King let out a gruff sound and left, slamming the door behind him. 

Hera swallowed the pain as her lips spread into a smile. 

Zeus had done exactly what she’d anticipated. He’d gone too far. There would be no salvation for him. The demigods would come for him, they would rebel. And in the chaos, Hera, fair Hera, would rise. And when the mist of blood settled, she would be seated on the throne. And Zeus would never lay a hand on her again.

It was so ironic Hera nearly laughed. Ironic that her sacred animal was a peacock. Ironic that the blue and purple and green and gold marring her features made her look like one. The bruises reminiscent of her mighty birds feathers.

Maybe it was just meant to be.

* * *

He’d nearly collapsed when it happened. Nearly joined Hazel on the floor when it snapped— when it fractured. When it disappeared entirely. 

Too late. He’d discovered the bond too late.

Not until Nico had placed that bloodied hand to his cheek had he realized. Had they both realized. It had always been there. Deep down and well hidden, as if it knew to stay in the depths of their souls so that the gods, the Fates, the universe wouldn’t be able to exploit it. 

A rarity, an impossibility. He didn’t know what it was, but he had a feeling the demigods in the room did. All he knew for certain was that he’d discovered it too late.

And now it was gone.

Now _he_ was gone.

He was gone.

He was… 

Every breath felt wrong, his skin was too warm— suffocating, even. His stomach was doing somersaults and there was a static-like sensation, like a million invisible needles pointing out the loss. Pointing out the emptiness. Because it was gone. The bond, whatever it was, whatever it had been… it was gone. 

When Will burst out, he’d barely heard it. And the others, he was sure they were talking, but he couldn’t hear them either. And the shrieking from the wound in his leg, he was deaf to that too. Only silence roared in his ears as he thrummed with pain.

His heart was staggered in its palpitations, breath rattling as it escaped his cracked lips. Mind blank, hands shaking. He’d heard about this once, in one of his classes at Camp. 

Shock, Percy realized. He was going into shock. And the slumbering powers trembled with constraint inside of his core. Percy’s eyes flicked back to the bed before him. To the blood that called to the power in his veins. 

_You could have saved him,_ they hissed. 

_He’s gone_

_You should have saved him_

_He’s gone_

_It’s your fault_

_He’s gone_

_It’s all your f—_

Pain ripped through his leg, through his entire body, but Percy didn’t slow his strides. He didn’t stop until he’d burst through the main doors of the infirmary— nearly tearing the hinges— and could feel the air on his face. It smelled of war. It felt of death.

Echoes of the hellhounds cry still pierced throughout Camp, ricocheting off the shards of his decimated heart. Vaguely he could make out that there were people surrounding him— six haze cloaked figures— and that they were talking. But he could not hear their words. No. 

He could hear nothing but the steady rhythm of his own heart. 

The bellowed command that erupted from his own lungs. 

The booming of midnight wings. 

He felt nothing but the pressure in his core— not even the rain as he shielded himself from it— nothing but the powerful muscles shifting beneath him as the pegasus climbed the crimson painted sky.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I cry writing this chapter? Yes, yes I did.  
> Do I regret writing this chapter? No, no I don't.  
> Am I anxious to hear what you think about this chapter? Yes, yes I am.
> 
> Hope you enjoy ;)

Hands held high to the sun, Apollo let his power thrum within him to an almost painful degree as he pushed the sun to it’s zenith. As he forced it up, up, up. As he urged it to shine brighter, stronger; to illuminate the sky, to rid any shadows, to dry every drop of rain that had befallen only moments ago. 

The chariot beneath his feet became a beacon of light as it’s golden embellishments echoed the rays that Apollo coaxed from the sun. High above the mortal lands, the city they called New York, Apollo had been on his way to the weekly council meeting when he’d felt it. 

The thunderstorm had caused him little pause— most likely a feud between Zeus and Hera again, something that had become more frequent in the past months. No. It was not the torrential rain or bolts of lightning that he’d shielded himself from easily that had caused him to halt the chariot completely. It wasn’t his rebellion towards Zeus’ suffocating rule that had Apollo reaching to the sky and breaking any and all command Zeus had ever enforced to prevent such a show of his power. It had nothing to do with Zeus or his insufferable storms at all.

It was Will.

Because when the chariot had nearly reached the entrance to Olympus, when that great building of such renown had come into view, Apollo had nearly fallen from the sky. Like a spear of Stygian iron being impaled into his essence, Apollo had dropped to his knees and forced the chariot to freeze.

Will was in pain. His greatest healer, his prodigal child, his son. 

Apollo’s shield against the storm had faltered and he’d been battered with the bullet like rain, the crackling thunder deafening in his ears. Without a moment to catch his breath or raise his shield again, a vision struck him. Of his boy alone in the unprotected woods beyond Camp Half-Blood’s barrier, shrieking to the sky as he too fell to his knees. And then the pain struck him, like the lash of a whip across his heart, Apollo felt it. The vision left him, the pain dissipated, the storm around him began to lessen, and suddenly Apollo was no longer confused. Because there was only one reason his son— his impossibly kind and warm and radiant son— would ever act in such a way.

The di Angelo boy.

The sun god lowered himself from his knees to sit on the bottom of his chariot, suspended in the air. He looked down at his own hands. He’d heard Will’s call, he’d granted his son the blessing, and it hadn’t been enough. Apollo was no being of death, but he knew when a treatment was rejected. 

_No_

No it couldn’t be

Will had never asked anything of him, of the other gods, of the universe or the Fates. All he’d ever wanted was to be with that son of Hades.

_Hades_

There was a time when Apollo had hated the Underworld. Despised how it was the complete opposite of himself, and how its rulers were cold and unfeeling. But then the impossible had happened. Will had fallen in love with the son of Hades, the Prince of the Underworld, the Prince of Darkness. Apollo had never felt such love radiate from any of his children before, not in millennia, so he’d sought out to understand; to see what it was that had enthralled his son.

Unbeknownst to Will, Apollo had traded in his pride for curiosity and gone to the land of death and eternal anguish. But instead of being disgusted by the lack of warmth and light and distant screams of pain, he’d walked through the palace, seen the garden and the forest his own sister had gifted. He’d visited Cerberus and walked with Hades beside the River Styx. And it was then that Apollo realized. The coldness was nothing but a facade. 

Apollo had no doubt in his mind that Hades and Persephone could turn to that, could become beacons of death and unforgiving cold— could become even more than the masks they carefully wore— but most of the time they were doing it to protect what they loved.

Their flowers, their land, their people, and Nico. 

Apollo’s sister had fallen in love with Persephone eons ago, and his son had fallen in love with she and Hades’ son— and now, Apollo had felt himself fall in love too; become fascinated with the Underworld just as his son had.

When Apollo had felt Nico’s life vanishing, felt Will’s heart cracking, Apollo had blessed his son in hopes of saving that connection, that love. Because Apollo knew that saving your own child through blessing or outright healing wasn’t simply forbidden, it was impossible. A rule enforced by the fates themselves. A law that could not be broken for it was sewn into the gods’ very essences. And Apollo hadn’t wanted Hades to feel that sense of helplessness that Apollo had been forced to become accustomed to after so many wars and quests at his children’s expense.

He knew what it was like to feel your own child dying and be, for the first time in your immortal life, utterly powerless to save them. He didn’t want that for Hades. But it didn’t matter. Somehow, for some reason, the blessing hadn’t been enough. And now his son was alone, his future ripped from under him, his soulmate stripped from the fabric of his being.

And so, Apollo rose to his feet, he rose and extended his arms to the sky and with bared teeth he forced the sun higher, higher, higher. He forced it to shine so brightly that it might fill Will with warmth, fill the void of cold emptiness he must be lost in. Finally, Apollo released his hold, satisfied with the position of the sun. Panting, he took the reins in his hands, prepared to abandon the council meeting and go to his son— to do what, he did not know. All he knew was that his son needed him, he needed his father. He tightened his hold on the leather but before he could lash them into motion, a spot of darkness streaked the sky. It looked almost like a void as the radiant beams of golden light were absorbed by the splotch of darkness.

It took Apollo a moment to realize the void had wings. Had four legs. Had a mane whipping in the wind as it bolted through the sky.

A pegasus. 

A pegasus with a rider.

Apollo vowed to himself that he would go to Will before the day was through, and then to the Underworld to personally offer his condolences. But for now, he readjusted the trajectory of his chariot and followed after Percy Jackson to the gates of Olympus.

* * *

The council meeting was to start in less than an hour, but Zeus had something he needed to do. He climbed the spiraling stone steps up, up, up and, finally reaching the hidden room, stormed through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

His thoughts were racing but he needed to calm them, needed to quell the maelstrom in his head so that he gave nothing away to the other gods. He had been rehearsing for days how he would act— every facial expression, every muscle in his face that would convey surprise upon hearing of the war, hearing of the di Angelo boy’s immense powers.

He had not intended on killing the son of Hades, not really, nor had he really intended on using his and Hecate’s creation. But what was done was done. He’d simply had to rehearse some more in the mirror to account for the ‘surprise’ and ‘horror’ he would display upon hearing of the boy’s gruesome demise.

But it was fine, everything was perfectly fine. He crossed the small room, careful of the whirls painted across the floor by Hecate’s morning form just the other day upon his demand. Wiping Hera’s blood from the back of his hand, he reached into his pocket to remove the small piece of parchment. The calligraphy reminded him of Persephone’s signature, but he shoved the disdain and read the incantation aloud. 

The whorls began to glow a muted aqua as the words tingled on his lips. And then a mist that wasn’t quite water burst through the room, crashing against the walls and ceiling before taking shape.

“Oh so now he’s too lazy ‘ta even be bothered with a visit.”

“Stop it you mayb—”

“We don’t appreciate bein’ at yer beck and call, _majesty_.”

The Fates accented voices filled the room before their features were fully formed and then Zeus was surrounded by the three primordial beings. He hadn’t the time for their bickering nor pleasantries so he looked down his nose at them and said proudly, “You said it could not be done, but you underestimate my power. I have seized my fate, bent it to my will. And in two days time, when I gather the gods for the deciding vote, I will have won.”

The all-knowing creatures smiled that vipers grin and it was the Third who spoke, that voice and presence taking up the entire room, challenging the king before her. “You have seized nothing, bent nothing.”

“If you continue on this path,” the Second added, “you’ll only continue ‘ta ensure your own demise.”

The First grinned wider than the others, crossing her wrinkled arms before her, that silver hair as wild as her purple eyes. “You have no idea what you’ve unleashed.”

“I am no fool, you speak of Percy Jackson. I saw his anger when the son of Hades passed. But he will be nothing in two days. I am going to strip every drop of power from his body. He will be nothing but a teenage mortal.”

The Fates’ cackling laugh boomed against the walls, echoing even as the Third hissed, “Perhaps the greatest fool to ever roam the universe, you.”

The First shook her head with an otherworldly grin as she tisked through yellowed teeth, “You are going ‘ta lose. Shame, that is.”

“He is a boy,” Zeus huffed mightily. “I am the God King.”

They smiled to each other knowingly in a way that made Zeus’ pride falter and it was the Second who took a step forward, seizing his hand into her own made from that strange mist. The other two fell silent as she turned the god’s hand between hers. She stared at the knuckles for a moment as if she could see Hera’s ichor that had so recently been there.

With a voice like cyanide, she spat onto his hand without warning, and jerked her eyes to his. Zeus tried to pull his hand away, to yell at her for the disrespect, but the Fate did not release her impossibly strong hold as she pinned him with those alarmingly viper-like irises.

“The second God Killer has been awakened. And he is coming for you.”

With that and no more, the Fates disappeared. Though the Second’s words echoed throughout the chamber as Zeus stood there; echoed through his mind as he descended the steps; echoed through the empty chasm of his soul as he strode for the council room, and took his seat at the center most throne, as the other gods filled in, as the meeting begun.

A God Killer. It was a term he had not heard in millennia, a title, a species he had forgotten existed. Zeus had sensed something different about Nico, but not this. Never would he have imagined this. But now it all made sense, everything made sense. And now, Nico was dead— a God Killer… Zeus had defeated a God Killer. It would be even easier now to have the other children of the Big Three’s power stripped. It would take little debate from the other gods. Because he would take no chances. He had been content with the idea of power dilution but after this… he wanted them eradicated. It was difficult to feel satisfaction, to feel pride when the Second’s voice still filled his head.

The words echoed, slithering like a viper through sand. Beside him, Hera sat tall and proud, no evidence of a broken jaw or ichor or pain. He was lost in those echoed words, lost in the powder so skillfully placed on his wife’s cheek, when the doors to the throne room burst open.

_The second God Killer has been awakened. And he is coming for you._

The Hall of the Gods went silent as the demigod, as the God Killer, as the incantation of war and destruction crossed the threshold. Limping heavily, leather armor splattered with blood, shoes coated in mud and gore. And a crimson mark in the shape of a hand at his cheek.

And in the silence, those words chanted through Zeus’ mind.

_He is coming for you_

* * *

The light, it was too bright. It burned her eyes despite both lids being shut. She’d grown accustomed to the darkness, to the void of nothing that she’d been existing in for what could’ve been hours, or days, or even years. Time had no meaning where darkness was the only construct. Her thoughts were fleeting, neither here nor there, and nothing existed in the dark embrace of her mindscape. It wasn’t frightening, it wasn’t peaceful. It was just nothing.

But then the nothing had suddenly begun to feel like something. And the light, that burning light, had announced itself as if a shard of sun slipping through the folds of a midnight curtain. 

Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy, but the burning had softened, no more a sharp blade, but now a dull sort of blinding warmth. It seeped into her skin, into her body that began to tingle to life as the nerves became aware. The warmth gave way to new sensations, to many, so many. She was berated with sounds— hushed whispers— and smells— strawberries, grass, blood. 

Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy, but the burning within her became prevalent. It was a fire raging inside of her, the heat rising exponentially. 

Burn out

Why, she wondered, was it called a burn out when she felt as though all of the fire was trapped within her? Like she was so dry inside, so parched of her strength and her powers that every fiber of her being had set itself aflame in mourning of the emptiness. 

Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy, but a thought, the very first fully formed thought in however long since entering this pit of nothingness blared between her ears. It ricochet between her ringing ears like a bullet, like shrapnel in a glass room.

Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy, but Reyna forced them open, forced herself upright because _Nico_. Where was Nico? She barely knew her own name, let alone where she was in this godsforsaken universe but _Nico_. She needed him. He needed her. Where was he? What had happened?

The memories berated her, drowning her as she sat upright on trembling limbs and as her body heaved with labored breaths that each burned with the same ferocity as the flames inside of her. With each breath the burning lessened and the thought grew louder as her vision finally began to clear.

There were people in the room, people with blurred features that she couldn’t quite make out as the haze of her coma slowly relinquished its hold. She didn’t bother with pleasantries as she jolted from the bed and staggered from the room. 

Hands were on her almost immediately but she fought them off on trained instinct alone as a much newer, rawer, stronger instinct guided her through bustling, foreign halls and strange curtained rooms. Like a string in her heart that led the way, she followed the twine of fate and by the time she reached the end of one hall and reached out to part the curtain, her sight was restored, her breathing back to normal, her throat burning and core uncomfortably empty but she was present. And when she pulled the fabric back quietly, taking a silent step into the room, Reyna— for the first time since launching from the hospital bed— went completely still.

Nico

He was asleep

He was alive

There was a dark blanket pulled up to just beneath his chin, covering him as he lay on the bed and his eyes were closed. She lowered her blade, yells and screams still behind her as she staggered forward, still shaking off the last after effects of the coma. But a smile graced her lips— a smile of relief, of great fullness. He was asleep. He was asleep and he was alive. 

They’d done it. Just like they’d said. Together. 

There was a strand of raven hair strewn across his face and Reyna reached out to brush it aside gently. Fingers grazing his forehead, she recoiled, pulling her hand back as if burned. Because his skin… it wasn’t the icy chill she’d come to know and find comfort in— no. It was unnaturally frigid, even by his standards. And, stranger still, was that he hadn’t flinched when she’d touched him. 

Hadn’t so much as breathed.

The realization struck her like a blade. Because the sheet covering his body… it wasn’t rising or falling. As if a statue, Nico laid there.

_No_

_No no no no_

There were hands on her, but she lashed out in a whirl of Imperial gold and bared teeth, not caring who or what she struck. And when she turned back, she ripped off the sheet.

_No_

_No no no no no no_

It was a battlefield of trenches and caverns and chasms, terrain crafted by muscle and tissue and blood. It was skin, black with bruising, raked through with gouges that gave way to splintered bone. It was, it was— 

Reyna barely had the awareness to turn away as she emptied the contents of her stomach. Great shudders wracked her frame, chest heaving for air in hitched breaths as she fell to the ground, bracing herself on hand and knees. And when there was nothing left, she reached for the mattress edge and heaved herself up.

_No_

_No_

_NO_

_“NO!”_

She got to her feet with a war cry, hands shooting out to grab Nico’s shoulders.

“Nico?” No answer, no nothing. She shook him, in between her filthy hands she shook her best friend with every ounce of strength left in her own ravaged body “Nico n-Nico wake up. Come on you gotta- Nico please please come on just w-wake up _wake up!”_

Her voice was hoarse and painfully dry but she didn’t care. Her signature neat braid was undone, strands wild and untamed, tears streaming down her face. _“NICO!”_

But for the first time, he didn’t wake up. He didn’t scream himself into consciousness with sweat gracing his brow like a halo, he didn’t jolt from the bed and try to hide the winces of his bruised body. He did nothing. And it was a corpse, cold with death— _real_ death— that she held between her hands.

But she didn’t let go. She didn’t run out of this place that she only now realized reeked with death. Instead she climbed on top of the mattress with trembling limbs and brought him into her arms, cradling the limp body as incomprehensible sounds escaped her lips.

During her time at the Wolf House, Reyna had witnessed one of Lupa’s sentinels be brought back from her post— white pelt soiled and matted through with ichor. She still remembered the animalistic growled whimpers, the sorrowful cries and broken howls from another female wolf who’d torn through the grass, racing for the wounded. Reyna remembered watching from afar with confusion on her face, Lupa coming up beside her and speaking into her mind.

“It is the unexpected incidents, the deaths none could have predicted nor stopped that are the most soul crushing.”

With that and nothing more, Lupa had strode for her fallen charge, and moved closer to be a steady, comforting presence as she passed on. But also to lean against the other who let herself be ravaged by the roaring pain inside of her as she cried to the forest that would never again be merely her home. For it had ripped her mate from existence. 

Reyna remembered those sounds, remembered feeling a lump grow in her throat and something like tears prickle her eyes at the sheer agony, the desperation in the sounds despite not knowing either wolf. Because those sounds had spoken to her, spoken to the universe—their desperation had told Reyna all she needed to know; told her of how deep the loss truly was. She remembered being confused and slightly in awe, captivated by how any being could feel such emotion, how they could feel such love that their vocal chords transformed into instruments of anguish, their voices into the embodiment of grief.

But she understood now. Understood as those same noises ripped through her, shaking the bed and the curtains and the limp body in her arms. She understood. She understood.

The skin on her arms burned at the frigidness of Nico’s but she didn’t care, barely felt the stinging beginnings of frostbite or the strain of his weight in her tired muscles.

Though Reyna stopped the ravaged sounds to take hitched breaths and force air into her insatiable lungs, she didn’t hold back the tears that began to stream down her cheeks as she closed her eyes to the world, closed her eyes to a reality she refused to acknowledge. And she sang.

She’d never sobbed before, never let herself succumb to such emotions. But she held nothing back, broke every last wall, shattered every last chain. Voice strangled by the bawling, cracked by the sandpaper dryness, Reyna sang. For the future she wanted no part of. For the future Nico would never get to see. For her best friend. She didn’t care who heard. She sang the song of her home, the song that had only last night been a promise to the forest and the stars that she would do anything to grant Nico and Will their future.

The last lyric tore through her and the room went silent.

Reyna parted her cracked lips, turning her head to let out a cough that left her reeling, and then began anew. And with each verse, with each incantation forced through shattered vocal chords, the coldness between her arms began to seep into her heart.

Until it too was dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is quite possibly my favorite chapter I have ever written for any fic ever  
> Super mega anxious and excited and curious to hear any and all thoughts on what you think of it!
> 
> <3 Alrighty, hope you enjoy <3
> 
> [TW: mentions of past child and marital abuse]  
> [TW: angst. heavy heavy angst.]

Seated in their respective thrones, the gods of the council fell into silence as the double doors burst open. Without warning, Zeus went ramrod straight in his throne with a strangled gasp. Beside him, Hera let out a cry of surprise before she too was frozen upon the dais. Ares and Athena were on their feet in an instant, raising their weapons but going no further as they aimed spear and sword to the threshold.

The first thing to cross into the Hall of the Gods was an outstretched hand. Blood covered fingers glinted in the bright light of the white marble room as they trembled ever so slightly.

When the blood-soaked warrior crossed the threshold, even Ares himself lowered his weapon in surprise. From her throne, Demeter tightened her hold around the wheat covered armrest, her eyes flicking from the demigod to the king and queen still trapped in their thrones.

The intruder limped heavily as he walked further into the Hall of the Gods, though his breaths were even, his eyes level, his steps unhurried. 

Apollo and Artemis were frozen in their thrones as well— not from whatever was happening beneath the demigod’s raised hand or claw-contorted fingers that were somehow affecting the king and queen, but from astonished fascination. In her place beside the empty throne of Hephaestus, Aphrodite was wide eyed and stunned.

And Poseidon… the sea god’s breath caught in his throat as his son stepped into the throne room. As his son neared the dais, entered the circle of thrones, some empty such as Hephaestus’ and Hades’. But his son paid no mind to the thrones— those empty or taken by the most powerful gods in existence.

Crimson soaked his leather armor and the clothing beneath; flowed slowly from a cut on his lip and the slices on his jaw and arms; seeped onto the pristine marble floors from a gash on his leg. But there was something else— a mark in blood on the demigod’s left cheek. A mark in the shape of a hand print.

_Oh_

_Oh no_

Poseidon clamped the arm of his throne as he, and the rest of the room, put it all together. The battle… the gods knew it had been going on, knew that it had been won but little else. Something must have happened. Someone must have died. Someone close to his son. Similar revelations were being had by the other gods, but none spoke as the demigod somehow continued to hold the king and queen.

Percy took step after step into the circle of gods, an otherworldly gaze— that perfected wolf's stare— never faltering from Zeus.

The king of the gods strained to break from the mysterious hold. Cracks of thunder and lightning exploded around them, the throne room growing dark as the sky through the massive window panes turned black, but Percy did not relinquish his hold. Unrelenting and thrumming with power that pricked his nerves as he fought to control it, Percy made a motion with his pointer finger causing a thin stream of ichor to flow from Zeus’ nose.

The God King stared at Percy with the anger of a million storms but could do nothing. 

Percy was too tired from the battle, from the suffocating loss and grief and guilt that after a few tense moments he released Hera, who slumped against her throne, tremors wracking her ichor starved anatomy. The sounds of her struggle back to reality echoed throughout the room of marble. Percy held Zeus for a moment more, finally releasing the king’s ichor, though not from beneath the glare he pinned him with. 

It took every ounce of Zeus’ willpower and strength to ease back to a more natural seated position rather than flail like Hera was just now ceasing to do as the ichor settled within their bodies. With a command more strained and hoarse than he’d intended, Zeus bellowed to Athena and Ares who made to charge. 

Percy, who had closed his eyes in concentration trying to get his powers to back down, was for a moment at the mercy of his abilities that sensed the attack. His eyes flew open, arm extending with a claw-like grip that slashed through the air. He felt the powers lash from him, causing the two gods of war to halt and their knees to buckle, nearly bringing them to the ground.

By some stroke of luck, Percy was able to reign the powers back down, down, down, as the two gods rose, faces incredulous. Ares’ eyes of flame flickered brightly, morbid fascination dawning on his face, drawing out a crooked grin as he looked at the demigod as if for the first time. Looked at him like a shiny new weapon. But Athena narrowed her grey eyes as she stood, pinning the demigod with a look of distrust and a sneer as if repulsed. “What are you?”

The other gods voiced similar questions but Zeus silenced them all with a thunderous voice, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Nico di Angelo…” Percy nearly choked on the name, though his voice cracked as he said, “is _dead_.”

Poseidon went rigid in his seat as a pang of grief reverberated against his immortal bones. No. Not the di Angelo boy. Not him. The sea god lowered his head in memory of the times he’d met the child of death, and all the times his own son had told him of Nico’s unparalleled bravery. Poseidon admired the demigod and knew he was loved by many. His thoughts were interrupted by the thought of his own brother. Poseidon’s attention flicked to the empty throne beside him as the hall went quiet once more.

The bloody hand print, it made sense now. As did the aroma of death clinging to the demigod before them.

Aphrodite whispered to herself, _“That’s what it was…”_ Not the death, but the heartbreak. The shattering of not one bond, but three. On her way to the meeting she had felt it. Two of them— a daughter of Rome, a son of Apollo— she could see clearly; the first archaic and feral, the second impossibly strong and pure. But the third… she had never felt a bond like this before, nor felt one of this type so brutally severed. She had not known who the third was, nor why it was so different from the others until now. Until seeing the son of Poseidon and his impossible strength— and the hand print of crimson marking him. Such a bond had not been seen in millennium. It had been so long, she’d nearly forgotten what it meant. 

_God Killers_

The word sounded strange even in her mind. She knew so little of the rare gift, and even less about the relation that two possessing it would have. But if there was one thing the goddess did know, it was bonds. Which is how she could be certain that Nico and Percy had been soul bonded in someway or another. And for a bond like that to break… she was surprised the son of Poseidon had not been driven to insanity; surprised he was able to stand here before the gods and form coherent thoughts. That alone made Aphrodite both fear and wonder at the immense strength this child of ichor and crimson truly possessed. And by looking around the room at the other gods' reactions, she could tell they had no idea— or at least very little— of what they were in the presence of. Aphrodite wished her husband was here to bare witness rather than under the mountain tinkering. She sat back in her throne and observed this impossibility with bated breath.

“I am sorry to hear that,” Artemis said, “but why are you here?”

“Oh no,” Percy huffed with a humorless laugh, “you don’t _get_ to be _sorry_. None of you do.”

He turned away from the goddess of the hunt, back to face the almighty Zeus as he answered her question, addressing the room despite having his eyes pinned on none other than the king. 

“We just won a war for you. A goddess you feared is dead. The field beyond the barrier is drenched in Greek and Roman blood. And Nico… Nico is _gone_ .” Percy’s nose scrunched, brows furrowing as he spit out, “You’re the king of the gods. I’m here because I want _answers_ . Like, for starters, why the hell are you all sitting up here while we’re bleeding down there?” He ripped his eyes from Zeus, turning to Hera. “Where were you when the Romans came for us?” Then to Artemis. “Where were you when Echidna and her army arrived?” Then to Demeter. “Where were you— you great noble gods, and the king of them all— when we were forced to take the lives of our fellow demigods?” He drug his eyes across the room to Athena. “Or when Nico spent the last weeks of his life nearly killing himself to transport the Parthenos across the globe?” Then pinned them back on Zeus. “Or when the only hope of survival, the only chance of keeping Echidna from slaughtering us all and raising Gaea rested on Nico’s shoulders?” Percy stepped forward, his voice no more than a growl from the pain in his leg, the agony of his shattered bond, and his fractured, grieving heart. “You are _gods_ ! You are _immortals_ ! _So where were you?!”_

Never. Never, in all of their days, had a demigod spoken to the gods in such a way. Never had they been so outright accused of their insolence. While Apollo and Aphrodite were impressed, if not a bit in awe at the bravery, Zeus was not amused. Not in the slightest. Especially not when Hera had the nerve to scoff under her breath, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth as if to remind him of her warning words that were now coming to fruition. 

Zeus looked down from the dais with the rage of a thousand storms. And the demigod, bleeding wound staining the holy ground an ungodly crimson, had irises that shone with promises of a thousand deaths.

“I do not answer to you!” the God King bellowed with a harshness and danger that made both Hera and Apollo flinch on experienced instinct. “You have no rights to make demands, you arrogant child!”

“Rights? _Rights?_ _”_ Percy clapped loudly, eyes wide in mock amazement. “The King of the Gods, everyone! Give it up for the supreme ruler of our reality! Having the nerve to lecture about rights while your children’s blood feeds the very earth you have all been created to protect.” But then Percy’s features went dark, any traces of that mock lightheartedness or his usual joking and mischievous characteristics left his face. When he looked to Zeus, the powers deep inside of him leapt, but he pushed them down, speaking through a jaw clenched from effort, “The deaths of the Greek demigods, the deaths of the Roman’s whose blood is still trapped in my armor, the death of Nico… all of it, every single one is on you. Your refusal to help, to do anything but sit up here and watch us tear ourselves apart for you makes you the biggest coward in all of creation. Innocent demigods are dead. My brother is dead. And I blame you.”

“You _dare_ accuse me, _boy?”_ Zeus’ voice thundered throughout the room, its power echoing from the marble pillars and granite walls. Zeus had seen greater beings grovel at that voice, at the crackling light that flickered beneath his fingertips.

The boy did nothing. Didn’t so much as blink. He stood squarely before Zeus, the skin of his face growing tight from the crimson hand print that had begun to dry. And the electricity Zeus had sent through the room to fill the air as a show of his might did nothing to Percy. How could he feel the sparks, or even the levity of the king’s voice when he couldn’t feel his own body. Percy was so numb, so hollow. And without the warmth of… of his brother’s blood on Percy’s face or the warmth of the Romans blood that drenched his clothes that dissipated, he was cold. So cold.

And it was at this moment that Zeus finally understood the Fate’s warning.

_The second God Killer has been awakened_

_And he is coming for you_

This demigod was anything but. If he did nothing, the child of Poseidon would be his undoing. And yet… the God Killer had released Zeus of its hold… which could only mean that it was clueless to the extent of Zeus’ involvement in the death of it’s so called “brother”. It was an effort for the God King not to smile.

Unaware of his own brother’s plotting but fearing the king’s wrath, Poseidon’s voice speared from his throne. “That is enough!”

And that face, the one that had commanded legions, had bridged two worlds and saved it countless times, that had endured the darkest horrors imaginable… that face turned to stare at the sea god, full of such hate and deceit and anguish. And with tears streaming from beneath those piercing sea green eyes, the liquid grief falling from his jaw like pearls on granite, Percy took in his father.

He turned the being who was supposedly his father, caustic remnants of the Styx coursing in his veins. And although his voice was barely audible, barely a whisper, it was stronger than Stygian iron.

“Did you know?”

Poseidon looked at his son, at his pride and joy, and guilt washed through his core like a tsunami. But he did not let it show, not as he felt the other gods turn their eyes to him. So he sat tall in his throne, kept the composure of a being worthy of it and regarded his boy with a look of dignified confusion. 

“Know what, Perseus.”

Percy flinched at the name and drew his nose up as if a wolf snarling, “Did you know what Gabe was doing to us all those years? To mom… to me?”

“It was for the best.”

The throne room was set into silence at the levity of that admission. Only a few of the gods looked disgusted, the others sat just as tall as Zeus, knowing they had done worse things in their eternal lives. Despite their smugness, none spoke, not as the raven haired boy covered in blood began to laugh. The sound was strange, strangled almost, as Percy clutched his chest with one hand, bracing the other against his knee as his frame wracked with laughter. He staggered slightly, letting out a cry as he regained his balance on the injured leg.

Voice hoarse, he looked up at the shock and confusion pulling at the mighty Poseidon's face, and his smile fell, laughter ceasing as abruptly as it had begun. There was nothing on his features. Nothing.

“Well, I’m glad you spent all those years going about your business while mom and I were abused. Tell me, were you busy picking out what size pool table to put in the game room of your new underwater castle while Gabe was making the tough decision of whether to bash moms head into the ceramic sink or the door frame?” Poseidon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, flicking his eyes to the gods around him who were all captivated by Percy’s words as the boy let out a bitter laugh, “Did my screams help you sleep? Those nights when Gabe was yelling at mom so loud I thought my ears would bleed and he’d get so fed up with my begging and yelling for him to stop that he’d drag me by my hair to the coat closet and punched me in the ribs till I couldn’t breathe enough to make a sound. I wish I’d known then— little four and five and six and seven and eight and nine and ten and eleven and twelve year old me— that a god was watching. That he was looking down on me for all those hours when I felt so unbearably alone, locked in the cramped space for hours with nothing but my aching ribs and the muffled cries of my own mother to comfort me.”

Percy’s gaze pierced through the sea god’s immortal flesh and into the throne of shells and seaweed. Poseidon said nothing, mouth half open as if he were trying to think of a way to justify abandoning his only demigod son. Percy could almost hear his thoughts, hear how he was going to say that children of the Big Three could not be contacted, but Percy knew even Poseidon was now realizing how ridiculous of a rule that was; that it had been nothing but his own cowardice that had kept him from disobeying the rule that even Hades— Keeper of Oaths— had broken for the sake of his child that was now dead. With the room silent again, Percy began to pace before the gods, biting through the pain of his leg that now burned with a vengeance.

“Oh and that’s all before this whole ‘godly parent’ nonsense; before I ever stepped foot on Camp Half-Blood, let alone knew what a demigod was. Meaning, you also got to see me go on missions, watch me lose my memory, let me go to Tartarus. Yeah, how was that for you? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, I’m not a fan. Oh wait… I forgot,” he said, looking around the room slowly, meeting eyes of fire and wheat, of mystical orange and steel grey. “None of you have ever actually been there.” 

Athena’s furrowed brow deepened, matching that of Zeus’ expression, but still none spoke.

“Ya know,” Percy continued, his limping gait the only sound as mud and gore squelched against the polished floor, “I’ve heard of this crazy thing, I know it’s wild but hear me out… parents getting worried for their children’s safety. What a concept! Apparently the mortal parents do it all the time, I wonder what that’s like.” 

“Perseus that is enou-”

That name, that _name_. He hated it with everything he was. ‘Perseus’, the original being the famed son of Zeus. It was the name the gods used when talking to a slave. A soldier. A weapon. Percy whirled to face his father.

“Do you know I grew colorblind to black and blue? Because after a while, it was just part of mom’s skin and not a day went by when it wasn’t on her. _You_ let that happen. _You_ did that to her. And don’t you dare, don’t you _dare_ even _think_ of blaming it on me, of saying she endured all of that to protect me. I didn’t ask to be born.” Poseidon parted his lips again and again Percy interjected. “You have never been a god. You have never been a father. Your existence is a waste of cosmic space, all of you.”

“PERSEUS THAT IS ENOUGH!” Poseidon bellowed, an echo of Zeus’ recent outburst, once he’d recovered from the verbal whiplash. But Percy would not back down, he was unrelenting, his battered and broken mind and body running on shear adrenaline and fury.

“Or what, huh? You leave me and mom, you let Gabe physically and mentally abuse us for _years..._ you don’t visit or call to let me know you’re alive, you send me on missions, watch me lose my memory, let me go into Tartarus and you choose _now_ to be my father?” Each word, laced with deadly poison was spit towards the god, the chiseled bones of his jaw clenching dangerously tight. “So what, _dad_ , what are you going to do? Ground me? Turn me into a sea slug? Make me go on more missions, fulfill more prophecies, fight more wars only to see those I love choke on their last words… die in my arms before they have a chance to truly live… all while barely escaping death myself? Well, here—” Percy's voice escalated as he drew his blade and threw Riptide across the throne room; the sacred weapon clanging against the marble before coming to a clattering halt at the sea god’s feet. “— why don’t you just save everyone the trouble and kill me now.”

The room was silent. Percy looked at each god’s face, stopping at the sorry excuse for a king of whom he gazed so deeply that he could see the thunderclouds rolling within. 

“That’s what I thought.” Percy said, voice dripping with disgust but also something like disappointment. A strange, incomprehensible darkness settled in his eyes. “Fulfill your own prophecies, fight your own wars. I’m done.” 

Poseidon spoke through his eyes a millennia of unspoken regret and apology— begging for forgiveness. His son looked at him, not a single emotion in his unblinking eyes, nor a sign of the jovial child he once was. It was a trauma battered warrior who stared at him as if looking at a slate of concrete rather than his father and, without a single word, turned his back.

Percy Jackson, son of Sally Jackson, wielder of water and blood and ichor, God Killer, limped away from the council, exiting the Hall of the Gods in a trail of bloody footprints. 

* * *

It was clear to Apollo that the King of the Underworld was too consumed in his grief to show any signs of shock or surprise when he arrived unannounced. In fact, Apollo would be the surprised one if Hades was capable of feeling anything at all. The god of light had sensed it the moment he’d stepped into the palace, used the sensation to locate the king and find him standing alone on the highest balcony that overlooked the east side of the realm. 

The sensation— trauma induced dissociation— had announced itself to Apollo as if a physical wound to be healed. And though mental injury was just as serious to health as a physical one, Apollo was unable to help. The mind was beyond his godly control, a reason for which many of his children fell prey to burnout or stress or anxiety or all three. 

All that to say, rather than pry or attempt to ease the tension and sorrow with humor or music or warmth or light, Apollo simply stood beside Hades. For he knew the greatest gift he could give in the face of such pain was his silent presence. So he stood beside the King of Death, the father grieving the loss of his beloved child, and said nothing. The god of shadows, of darkness, of oath, of silence, didn’t so much as acknowledge Apollo, but he did not make any indication he wished Apollo gone, so the god of light remained. 

Not used to being so still— for inner peace was a difficult concept when one's essence was an eternally burning orb of solar flares— Apollo distracted himself by looking down at the gardens far below. 

When last he’d visited, the gardens had taken his breath away. Had, for the first time in a long time, rendered him speechless. Once lush and vibrant with every color imaginable, bursting with life in the land of death, the sprawling expanse of a garden was now in ruins. Demolished in its entirety. Every flower was wilted, every petal black and wrinkled, every stem and leaf and piece of greenery riddled with splotches of decay. It was horrific. Though Apollo could only imagine what a sight it had been to witness the destruction firsthand. To have been in _her_ presence when the news reached the Underworld. To have watched as _she_ annihilated her most sacred place in this land of the dead. Persephone. The Queen.

Apollo had come to offer his condolences and also to inform them of the events that had conspired during the council meeting— of Perseus Jackson’s unbridled rage and accusations, of Zeus approaching the other gods individually to discuss removal of children of the Big Three’s abilities— but upon arriving to the Underworld, upon seeing the garden, upon hearing the screams from beyond the palace gates and finding the King of the Underworld looking no more than a ghost, Apollo had decided now wasn’t the time. 

When it was nearly time for Apollo to go about lowering the sun for the day, he quietly removed a piece of papyrus from the hidden compartment at the side of his armor— a detail Hephaestus had included for him as a gift when making the armor, to store parchment for writing haiku, poetry, song lyrics, music notes, medicinal ideas, love notes.

He wrote everything in three pages— expressing his sorrow, telling how he had tried to help by granting Will his blessing, explaining the council meeting and how it was becoming apparent that Perseus was no mere demigod, and about Apollo’s own suspicions regarding the King of the Gods’ reasoning for wanting the strongest demigods’ powers diluted. Grief from the memory of his own children’s deaths as well as his deep rooted frustrations with Zeus’ oppressive rule flowed through him as he bled words of ink onto the parchment. When he was finished, he was shocked to find there were tears in his eyes.

Apollo recalled the last time he had felt the sensation— the memory searing through him before he had the time to brace himself. Because, Zeus, he forbade such displays of emotion, forbade such weakness, forbade anything that would make the gods seem mortal. 

When Icarus had perished, when he had fallen from the sky, hurtling to the sea, the feathers of those melted wings ripping from his back and yet a smile on his face the whole way down, all the way until his back collided with the water and the shattering of his spine echoed like a crack of thunder, Apollo had cried. Endlessly, tears poured from him. So much so that he’d caused the sea level to rise, causing tidal waves and violent waters; causing boats to crash and islands to flood. Until Poseidon had sped through the water from his palace, steadying the sea once more and drawing the influx water away from the demolished lands; and until Zeus had marched down from Olympus and beaten Apollo so badly that the world was plunged into darkness— an eclipse the mortals called it. 

An eclipse. As a poet, he could admire the word. Such a beautiful combination of letters to describe the day when Artemis had pushed herself to the limit to bring the moon in front of the sun because Apollo had been to weak to lower it, to do much else than focus on clinging to life. The day when his sister— who had been halfway across the world leading a hunt— had sensed her brother’s agony echoing through her bones and raced through forest and field to find him. 

Apollo could recall only fragments, but the pain… he remembered the pain. Body and soul, mind and essence, it had stripped him of everything he knew, everything he was. Hanging between life and death was a new experience for the immortal, but the pain… it had made him feel no more than a mortal boy. He did remember his sister’s eyes though, he remembered how worry and fear and fury and echoes of his own pain flashed simultaneously, causing him to grow dizzy as ichor drained from the lacerations and burns littering his body. Burns… he remembered the burns. As the sun god, it was not an experience he had ever endured before. But while he was eternally protected from sunburn, his flesh offered little protection against bolts of lightning. And Apollo remembered— in fractured, haze-like memories— having to stay conscious enough to tell his sister what to do, how to heal him. The god of the sun and healing had never experienced that either, having to walk someone else through healing him. His sister’s hands, so steady from eons with a bow and hunting knife, had been trembling. He remembered that too. 

But despite it all, everyday since Icarus had perished, Apollo made it his duty— like that of raising and lowering the sun, or creating a new instrument, or facilitating the spread of medical knowledge and warmth and healing— to live with a streak of rebellion, just as Icarus had. Every time he made the sun a little brighter than Zeus permitted, or filled the streets of Olympus with more music than Zeus allowed, or spoke up in a dull council meeting, or spent time with his children despite the rules… Apollo felt closer to Icarus. Felt as though the man might have been proud, might have flashed that impossibly radiant smile that rivaled even Apollo’s own.

And so, Apollo did not wipe the crystal tears from his eyes with a golden hand, he did not apologize or try to hide the pools of liquid gathered beneath each iris. He simply folded the three pieces of parchment, placed them on the obsidian railing— sliding them closer to Hades bone-white hands— and departed without a single word.

Apollo had long since left by the time Hades slowly, so slowly, glanced down at the folded paper tattooed with elegant yet urgent scrawls of ink. He picked it up, the immensity of the words held within no doubt adding to the weight as he placed them into an inner pocket.

Hades returned his gaze to the direction of Elysium. 

No living being— mortal, demigod, god, primordial entity— could enter. Not even him lest he tore the walls down. He’d made it like that on purpose, to allow the dead true peace without the fear of the living coming for them. But for the walls to come down, for him or Persephone or anyone to be able to see Nico again, Hades would have to die. The walls of Elysium were tied to his very essence. 

When Bianca had passed, when he’d had to carry her fallen spirit to the gates of the oasis, he’d nearly done it. Nearly given himself so fully to the pain that he’d been close, so close. He’d sought out a shard of raw uncut Lucem, a material so potent against his darkness that it would take barely a second thought to take his own life. He kept the shard with him at all times as a reminder that the only true inevitability in existence was death. That no god, even he himself, was an exception to that one indisputable truth. The Lucem in his pocket even now— nestled beside Apollo’s letter— was the same shard he’d used to make the ichor oath to Nico. 

Hades could barely stand to be near the Styx. He used to take walks with Persephone along the hellish river. It always sang to them beautiful cryptic songs to warm their souls. But now it echoed his own voice. And Nico's. 

_If something happens to me, I need you to promise me something_

_Promise you’ll watch after Percy_

_There is something untamable in that boy_

_A darkness even I do not fully understand_

_Who better to help him learn to conquer it than you and Persephone?_

_On the River Styx,_

_I promise on this day that should you be struck down,_

_I will treat Perseus Jackson as kin_

A beast. It made no sense. His son was a God Killer, had unleashed himself upon the world, defeated Echidna, slaughtered her children. And yet... and yet he had been felled by one singular beast? Hades could not shake the feeling that something was wrong, something laid deeper. But it was difficult to analyze the darkness within him that warned of such things as the grief for his only son clouded his every thought.

Hades thought he knew pain, thought he knew grief, when Bianca died. He thought he.... he thought he’d finally learned how to carry the weight of it all on his immortal heart. Thought he was strong. But Nico... Nico, his boy, his son, his everything... he was gone.

Yes, his two children had made it to Elysium on their own merit and yes, it was a paradise, but never again would Bianca hunt under the moon drenched night sky with her sisters of Artemis. That was where she belonged, up there with the world at her fingertips. That was what his daughter deserved. It was where she had been, for the first time in her life, free. And she would never again be free. Elysium was many things but there was no moonlit sky, no effortless racing through forests, no monsters to hunt with an expertly knocked silver arrow. Hades had been able to survive his grief the first time knowing that at least one of his children could have the future they deserved. That Nico would get to live out that dream he and the son of Apollo, Will Solace, had planned together. But now.... but _now...._

Hades gazed out with a longing that made the white shard in his pocket grow heavy. 

He wondered about Persephone. It was getting late, he should go check on her. Because while his grief was silent, while he drowned in the numb absence of all he had lost to the point of static oblivion where all he could feel was the longing to drag that shard across his falsely advertised immortal throat, Persephone was different. Her pain, her grief was loud. It was feral. 

When Hades had felt Nico’s spirit pass through him, when he had fallen to the Judgement Hall’s obsidian floor and not risen, when she had run to him, helping him to rise and he’d told her, he’d told her with a thousand words and yet none at all in the silence, Persephone had exploded.

Her grief was not silent, was not numb as Hades’ was. No. Persephone raged, she burned with shadowfire at the emotions threatening to drown her, the gardens an unfortunate victim. She had contained herself enough to get Hades to the palace, and when she was sure he was capable of standing on his own, she left. 

And as he now stood on one of the many decks in the palace, overlooking Elysium, he could hear the screams, hear the roars, hear the shrieking sounds drifting through the Underworld from the Fields of Punishment. But they were louder than usual. Because his Queen was there, drowning her pain in blood, releasing her screams through the shrieking of the damned. 

Hades looked one last time out at the sacred land where his son and daughter now lived. He removed the shard from his pocket, turning it in his hand as his eyes remained on those gates. 

No

He would not be selfish, he would not bring those walls down for the sake of his own grief. He would not jeopardize the safety nor the peace of those within the walls. Nico and Bianca were finally reunited; Hades only hoped they knew how much their father missed them. Wished he could have told them one last time how proud he was of them. How much he loved them. Wished he had held onto Nico a moment more in the starlight drenched forest only three nights ago.

Hades ran a hand across his weary face and turned back inside. Throwing the shard into the hearth of hellfire on his way through the room, Hades went to find his Queen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!  
> So funny thing... I had so much homework (and two exams) this week that I had zero time to write. Meaning.... I wrote this entire chapter today. And it's longer than I intended 'cause I got excited to finally have some time to write lol
> 
> Oh and if you're waiting for Carpe Lucem to be updated, I know I'm late on that, I'm hoping to get that new chapter written and posted soon sorry for the wait!
> 
> Okay that's all my rambling for now! Hope you enjoy this one I can't wait to hear what you think about it!!

Zeus climbed the spiraling staircase, each step heavier than the last. 

Drained, he was absolutely drained from the facade, from the act. After that cursed boy’s dramatic departure, Zeus had set to work going to each god and goddess privately, ensuring their opinions aligned with his own. Successes had been made with Demeter, Athena, and— much to his surprise— Artemis. Tomorrow he would set his focus on the others, perhaps seeking out Poseidon first while he was so vulnerable to the verbal slaughter he’d endured from his own son. His son, the God Killer. Whether the other gods knew this or not, Zeus could not yet be certain, though after that display he knew it would take little convincing to confirm their suspicions. He needed more allies, needed to fortify the palace and prepare for rebellion from the demigods or any gods who did not side with him. There was much to do, so much to do before his throne was secured for eternity. 

But it could wait— all of it. He’d had to take the secret passageways to avoid Hera who was searching high and low for him. But she could wait. 

Up and up and up he went, the stairs feeling like mountains. All he wanted was to drown in the six nymphs he’d sent for— they should be all prepared for him by now— he’d personally selected them each early in the day. A smile spread across his lip, beginning his plan of attack for the evening ravishing. He could practically taste their aroma’s by the time he finally reached the top; could almost hear the rustling of sheets beneath their bodies he would make writhe with pleasure. The smile had grown exponentially and he could feel anticipatory thunder rumbling in his immortal bones as he grasped the gold embossed handle and pushed inside to the nymphs he’d kept waiting.

Six bodies, oiled and void of clothing as he’d demanded, all atop his bed awaiting his presence was not what the God King found when he opened the door. 

Ever since the sun had made its descent and night had settled, every hall and room and home on Olympus had been thrust into darkness. Not a single fire burned in the heavens. Having expected the same for his private chambers that relied on brazier light in the night, Zeus was momentarily blinded by the miniature sun trapped within a hole in the wall across the room. No, not the sun. Not trapped. For it was flames, neon in their radiant light, that were thrashing yet controlled within the gaping mouth of his hearth. No, not _his_ hearth.

“Disappointed, brother?”

Zeus froze in the threshold for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the raging fire and the body seated before it on the stone ledge. The door still propped open behind him, palm still wrapped around the handle, Zeus tilted his head.

“How did you get in here?” he demanded.

“Here?” She echoed, looking around the room slowly with captivating control even as Zeus sensed the disappointment she herself was radiating as she took in the massive bed with its hooks and ribbons, the objects hung and displayed on the walls all too worn to be simply ornamental, and the back doorway through which she must have sent the nymphs away. “There is a hearth, no?”

Zeus bristled, voice callous as he asked, “Is there something you came here for, or can I get back to my evening?”

Silence filled the tense air, not so much as a crackle from the flames nor the goddess whose back they brushed up against. The braziers around the room suddenly went alight, illuminating the space with a flickering aura of orange and yellow. Zeus could not recall when last he’d seen his sister— long enough that the title did not feel as though it still held. 

She had always been so different than the rest of them, just as Hades was— quiet, content to live a life of solitude. Meek. That is what they called her; ‘meek, weak, little Hestia. More human than goddess’. Zeus had always thought the description more than fitting, especially when she did nothing to combat the jeering. In her lifetime she had spent more centuries in the mortal lands than in Olympus with her fellow immortals. And yet, even being on the same planet for so long, she never seemed to grow tired of venturing to far off cultures or tribes or monasteries or countries. Her travels showed— had left their mark on her in more ways than one. 

Zeus did not remember her complexion, nor her voice being such a patchwork of colors, tones, dialects when he’d seen her last. She had once told him that much could be learned from the mortals, that their lives were rich and vibrant in their inevitability of time running out; something the immortal gods knew nothing about, according to her. Scoffed and rolled his eyes, that’s what he’d done when she’d brought it up to the council. It was the last meeting she ever attended. 

And yet, here she was. Before him. His sister. Looking every bit a royal seated tall with an air of dignity, wrapped in strange fabrics as varied as the patchwork of her flesh. The flickering light of the braziers was absorbed by the darker splotches of skin and reflected by the lighter. When she spoke, each word was a different accent, a different cadence; mesmerizing in nearly the same way as a sirens song. But rather than a compelling sound that forced and demanded without consent, this was a voice of embrace, of warmth. Though not as she met his eyes once again.

“I know what you did,” the words were spoken with a finality that sounded less like blind accusation, more like fact. Those eyes, rings of yellow so bright they seemed as though aflame, narrowed. Zeus stepped into the room, pulling the door behind him as he slipped on an easy smile.

“Know what, sister?”

“Oh, spare me the theatrics.”

Zeus raised a brow, keeping his face a mask of neutrality and confusion even as his heart thundered at the edge in her many-toned voice. The flames behind Hestia and those at the walls turned a deep auburn as she said, “I have spent enough nights by the hearths of businessmen crooked from greed, of CEOs lost to their influence over others, of dictators drowning themselves in power, of kings and queens and pharaohs and priests who would do anything to secure their thrones, their positions. To ensure their reign is eternal.” Zeus let her talk, let that strange voice carry throughout the room as he strode across it slowly, as if lost in the weight of her words. “And yet, you claim to be so different, so much mightier than the mortals so beneath you. A crown is a crown. A bloodthirsty ruler, is a bloodthirsty ruler, no matter what runs through his or her veins.” 

Zeus would bet this was the most Hestia had spoken perhaps in her entire lifetime. Yet the words flowed from her as if she were bleeding onto the raging hearth. As Zeus turned his back to her, reaching a cabinet and tugging one of the drawers silently, Hestia’s accents changed, taking a fullness that allowed emotion to pour into every word. 

“How can you bear to rule knowing what you have done? How can you lead with so much innocent blood on your hands knowing you are not yet done? I have seen it, brother, I have seen what that does— to mortals, yes, but that only means you are prolonging the inevitable. No one, _nothing_ can rule forever. It goes against the very nature of life itself. The world beneath this hallowed palace atop your clouds heavy laden with tears is littered with empires that believed themselves to be eternal. It simply cannot be.”

“And how, wise sister, have you come about such knowledge?” Zeus asked, trying to keep his words even, his tone neutral and relaxed as he rested his hands on the edge of the drawer. Despite himself, uncertainty caused his heart to stagger ever so slightly at the thoughts that crossed his mind. “What planted such disdain in you towards me?”

A pause, and then— 

“I had a vision.” 

Zeus stilled. He felt Hestia’s flame ringed eyes singe his back. 

“A vision?” He spoke into the drawer, the uncertainty, the hesitation dissipating with every word that floated towards him from the hearth. 

“Last night I was in Botswana— the Kgosi of the Balete tribe and I are good friends. I was sharing a meal with his people, the bonfire was magnificent beneath the stars, when it struck me. In the crackling logs I heard all, in the dancing flames I saw all. Your conversations with the Fates, with Poseidon, with Aphrodite and Hecate. I saw you strike Hera— heard you deny your involvement to the grieving child of the sea.”

Her words were lost on Zeus now, everything was lost on him save for the sight before him and the knowledge of what he must do. He gazed into the drawer, eyes focused on only one object despite the plethora of other things held within. Still, she spoke. Still, she bled those words full of despair, of grief for the present and future. Zeus reached into the drawer before turning around slowly. 

Hestia had her back to him, was staring into the flames, lost in their beauty, in their resilience and hope. The auburn flames flashed in the tears gathered beneath each eye as despair and disappointment turned to rage. The room was bathed in crimson light as the flames took to that of freshly spilled blood.

“You took him from this earth, you took him from his friends, from his family. You stole a future from a child who had done nothing but exist for your quests and battles and wars and torment. You will pay for what you’ve done,” she promised to her brother, the flames serving as witness to their carers wrath. She was not Hecate, could not cast a spell to cause her brother to self combust, but his ability to feel warmth— that she could take. With eyes ringed not in yellow but vibrant red, Hestia spun around to face him, to spit a curse that would sear his bones, scorch his heart. 

She turned, the fabrics of her dress whipping against the hearth, but he was already there— face mere inches from hers. Those pearlescent teeth glinted in the flickering light. A grin more monstrous than any creature she had ever seen, eyes more horrifying than any described in even the most frightening campfire stories that she’d ever heard, was the last thing she saw. The last thing she— 

Violating. The cold was violating. It was disarming. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t ice. It was frozen rivers and polar ice caps, it was snow storms and frigid steel pipes and subzero waters, it was the hypothermia and frostbite she’d seen take so many mortals' lives who died beside her flames having been too late for the warmth to reach their dead cells. Never had she felt so violated in all of her days.

Words had no meaning, sounds even less. Screams must be ripping from her, ravaging her larynx as she strangled on air between the animalistic roars. All that she could feel was the twin bands of _something_ at her wrists. It was—

_No_

She thrashed as another was secured on her left ankle

_NO_

Worse. It was so much worse. She knew what these were, she knew what they meant, what they did. She’d spent enough time by the cauldron-like fires of the sweatshops, by the blazing coal pits of the metal forging camps, by the lines of slaves forced to shovel-feed industrial machinery ovens with coal. 

Shackles. These were shackles. 

The goddess thrashed, reached for the hearth. For the first time in her immortal existence, nothing happened. The flames, they did not come to her. Because they were gone. The hearth was empty. She could not see it— no, she could see nothing— she could not feel it, could feel nothing but the unforgiving glacial sensation bursting from her wrists and ankle. Piercing and numbing all at once, her mind was reeling. There was no warmth inside of her, she had never existed without it before, never had it barred from her— stolen from her. And without it, she was blind, she was deaf, she was mute. Fire did not like to be trapped, did not like to be contained— it would rather burn through entire villages than be subdued. And she was the same. She was the same. 

But without the warmth that was her soul, her spirit, her essence, _her…_

No amount of thrashing, no amount of ravaged screaming that she could not hear through the ringing in her ears could stop the final band from latching around her right ankle. Shackled and bound, the goddess of the hearth, of warmth and family and hope, of friendly company and deep, soft smiles to the one you loved, of safety and destruction— 

Hestia fell to the ground.

She did not rise.

* * *

As Percy flew back to camp, adrenaline still pounding in his veins in tandem with the beating of Blackjack’s wings, he thought not of the council room, not of his father or the gods or anything else. Only one thing filled his mind, played in his head like a movie, flashed across his eyes as if he were still there.

Still there, standing across the field so littered with blood and death and ichor. Still there, watching in confusion as a single beast emerged from the dead and pounded across its kin to the beacon of death. Percy’s throat was still raw, even now, from the screams that he’d loosed to get Nico’s attention. But Percy could see it, could remember as if he were still there. How Nico had stood amongst the destruction, the annihilation and bloodshed he alone had caused. Stood there completely frozen. Frozen only when his eyes met that of the beast. A single beast had taken Nico down.

And then it struck Percy. It struck him with such force he nearly plummeted from the side of Blackjack. The pegasus let out a whinnied cry as Percy lurched to the right, readjusting his wings quickly to keep the demigod on his back. Blackjack spoke into Percy’s mind, asking if he was alright, asking what was wrong, saying he was taking Percy straight to the infirmary for his leg to be taken care of. But Percy couldn’t hear the voice speaking in his head. He couldn’t think of anything other than the realization that stole the air from his lungs, that caused the slumbering power within him to constrict tightly enough that he released a hand from Blackjack’s mane to clutch the pressure in his chest.

Because _how?_

How was it possible?

How was it possible for a single monster to have survived?

How was it possible that it had been saved from the decimation, from the reckoning?

How was it possible that this one beast, this singular entity had the strength to cross that field? 

How was it possible for it to have gotten so close without Nico striking?

And _why?_

Why hadn’t Nico lashed out with his newly claimed powers that Percy knew, first hand, were nearly impossible to control?

Why hadn’t he fought or moved out of the way or done _anything?_

 _Moved_ , Percy realized. When Nico had turned to face the beast… he hadn’t moved. He’d been frozen. Frozen in the beast’s eyes.

As if he’d been…

No. It couldn’t be. He had to be wrong. It was the exhaustion gnawing at his mind, the pain ravaging his leg, the grief obliterating his soul, the ricochet of his fractured shattered bond rattling within his empty husk of a soul, the adrenaline coursing through his veins and coating his blood of ichor and crimson. And yet— 

What if he was right?

The thought was allconsuming, and it caused the power locked deep within to flicker with anticipation. Blackjack let out a neigh, signaling they had arrived to Camp Half-Blood. They soared above the forest, through the faintly shimmering border, above the strawberry fields and the cabins and mess hall, to glide in a descending spiral above the infirmary. Percy could see the Seven huddled together outside of the infirmary, could see them notice Percy in the sky, could hear them call up to him with desperation and concern. Blackjack descended towards the group slowly so as to not jostle Percy’s wound, but the God Killer grabbed hold of the pegasus’ mane and gently pulled. They rose into the sky once more and, on Percy's command, headed away from the infirmary and towards the battlefield.

He had to see. Had to prove himself wrong. But also, he wasn’t ready to face the Camp, to face Annabeth, to face the Seven, to face himself or this new reality. A reality where he would never again see his brother’s smile, nor his laugh— rarer than any precious gemstone Hazel could ever coax from the ground.

He could hear Frank transform into some massive animal, could sense the Seven following. Following all the way to the farthest reaches of the wartorn field. Blackjack lowered Percy to the ravaged earth. He dismounted. 

The gore soaked mud made walking more difficult as he stumbled forward, it grabbed at his shoes, straining the wounded leg. His pace was slow, but he did not stop. Though he quickly averted his eyes from the demigod shaped mark in the mud from where Nico had fallen. His blood was still glistening in pools atop the wet earth. But that wasn’t what Percy was here for. 

The Seven were silent as they dismounted, the only sounds those of Frank shifting back to his demigod form and the squelching ground beneath their feet. But as they all neared, they could bite their tongues no longer.

Leo was the first to ask wearily, “Percy… what happened?” 

“Where did you go?” Frank asked as he held Hazel close beside him. She hadn’t spoken a word since collapsing in the infirmary.

“Olympus,” Piper guessed, “you went to Olympus didn’t you?”

Jason couldn’t keep the dread from his voice, “Oh gods, Percy, what did you do?”

“Percy?”

Annabeth did not voice a question even as a million berated her mind. She met Blackjack’s eyes, noticing how the side of him was slick with blood from Percy’s wound. The pegasus said nothing though, only looked forlorn as he moved behind the group who halted a few paces back on Annabeth’s silent command to the others. The questions died out, leaving nothing but the faint breeze whistling through their ears, carrying the smells of decay and ichor and the metallic taste of blood, as Percy halted the staggered walk that was painful even for them to watch.

He stood before the massive corpse of the dead monster— chest heaving, eyes wild.

“Percy what are you d-”

Annabeth’s hushed question was cut off by the sound of Riptide being drawn and sunk deep into the beast. As if slicing through nothing but air, Percy drug his blade down the length of its stomach. Flesh parted to reveal— 

Gasps sounded at his back. Percy barely heard them. 

The inside of the bloodied skin was marked with faintly glowing orange whorls, strange symbols but familiar in that he’d seen once before. And the chest cavity didn’t reveal bones or intestines. For that was an eagle— eyes closed but still breathing— that lay within the creature’s carcass. Held inside the now broken ribs as if a cage of marrow and bone.

Behind him, the others looked frantically from Percy to the eagle to each other. 

Because he remembered— they all did. How Nico had been ready to lash out and destroy the threat, but how he’d instead frozen. As if in a daze. As if trapped. As if compelled.

As if under a spell.

Because that meant… that meant this had been planned. Nico hadn’t been killed by some feral beast— some anomaly that had escaped death by some stroke of luck. No. 

Nico had been murdered. Murdered. 

And there was only one god whose symbol was an eagle.

_No. No no no no n-_

The rapid rise and fall to Percy’s broad chest ceased. Those sea green eyes turned dark and narrow. Another three slashes allowed him to remove a slab of the marked flesh. He threw it behind him, whoever caught it, he did not know— did not care. And, drowning himself willingly in that killing calm, Percy reached into the folds of rune marked tissue and extracted the blood stained eagle— those white feathers an ungodly crimson.

_Hecate_

_Zeus_

_Zeus,_ his mind blared; his blood sang, _Zeus, Zeus, Zeus._

 _“We won’t tell Zeus, do not worry,”_ the Fates had said those many nights ago when they’d stolen him from his sleep. Warned him… they’d been warning him. He should have realized. If he had then Nico would still be alive. Zeus must have been after him, must have been after Nico for his powers. 

Percy stood there, holding the evidence— the breathing, sleeping evidence— in his scarred, bloodied palms. The sacred symbol of the King of the Gods. To so much as touch one of his feathered creatures was considered a crime, even in the mortal lands. The ground behind him squelched as footsteps padded slowly, wearily through the gore soaked terrain.

“Perc-”

Both his heart and the contents of his hand cracked as one. The snap and splintering of bone rang throughout the battlefield across the sea of corpses. A death knell. A promise. When he turned, when Percy Jackson turned, they all took a step back.

His eyes were feral with promises of so much more than death— the eagle dangling from one hand, it’s shattered neck in his grip, those massive talons swaying and scraping against the mud. It was sacrilege how the holy bird hung from an arm marked with SPQR, marked with scars, marked with five red injection sites. 

Armour coated in splashes of blood, arms and legs trickling red lines through the mud and filth on his limbs, face marked by that final touch that must be growing cold as the wind bit at it… Realization struck Jason so hard he momentarily forgot how to breathe. Nico hadn’t been his only friend to die today. Because those eyes, they were hollow, and that body… it looked no different than the corpses strewn about the field. The demigod who stood before them with hollow eyes and gore coated body, the limp eagle held low… the demigod wasn’t Percy Jackson. 

And yet it was. It was Percy. It was his sea green eyes— no matter how haunted, how lifeless. It was his wind swept hair and smile lines. 

It was Percy Jackson.

It was the God Killer.

He drug the bird behind them, holding it now by a single leg. The others parted, staggering back in a daze. The God Killer walked through them, mounted Blackjack— the eagle now hanging from the pegasus’ side— and took to the sky without a single word.

Hazel looked down at the piece of flesh in her hands. The orange whorls seemed to stare back.

**************

The moment Blackjack’s hooves touched the earth Percy dismounted, readjusted his grip on the eagle, and turned with laser focus to his target destination. The six must have ridden on Frank in some form or another because he felt them fall into step behind him. Good.

His leg barked with lashes of pain and for a split second he wondered how it was possible he hadn’t passed out yet. When the second passed, he no longer cared. 

Cabin doors flung open as he pushed through and he was greeted by several shocked faces from behind tables of various bubbling and steaming concoctions. He heard the six file in behind him hesitantly. None had ever stepped foot into this cabin. It was an unspoken rule, something you just didn’t do. It was a rule taken so seriously that the residents hadn’t even bothered placing any sort of deterrent or lock on the doors. Yes it was a rule, but Percy didn’t care. 

He walked up to the closest worktable, the demigod behind it had wide eyes, as did her siblings at their own stations. 

“Where is she?” The girl only gaped at him. No, not at him, at the eagle in his white knuckled grip. Percy tried again with a smile that felt more like baring his teeth, “Lou Ellen, where is she?”

A boy a few tables down— Marcus, Percy thought was his name— cleared his throat and pointed to the stairs at the back corner of the room. “She’s upstairs resting. She suffered an injury during the battle.”

Percy was about to move for the steps but forced himself to still. To breathe.

“May I go up and see her? It’s urgent.”

Marcus— yes, his name was definitely Marcus, he was in the sparring class Percy taught— nodded after swallowing. Percy returned the gesture in thanks and crossed through the room— holding the eagle higher so its claws didn’t cut into the polished wooden floors. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve wanted to stop at every table and ask the demigod behind it what they were working on, how was their day, what was the coolest thing they’d created? But as it were, Percy looked at nothing but the staircase. 

With more difficulty than he’d imagined possible— most likely due to the added weight of the dead bird— Percy climbed the stairs. His powers jerked inside of him, promising relief from the wound that ravaged his leg, but he choked it until it settled within his core.

There was a long hall, closed doors on either side made of mosaic glass that must have been charmed to not be seen through all while letting light seep into the hallway, bathing the ornate rug in vibrant colors. He followed the long rug, noticing how it was woven with fibers representing all three phases of their mother. It was a shame to dirty it all with his shoes so covered in mud and gore.

Percy wondered what Hazel thought of the intricate glasswork, wondered if Annabeth was taken aback by the beautiful tapestry-like rug. Those thoughts left him as he finally reached the end of the hall and stood before a door not of glass but dark wood engraved with a polecat and a dog.

Percy knocked twice. There was a muffled reply. He could barely feel the bite of cold metal in his palm as he turned the handle and opened the door wide.

It was a modest bedroom, drapes pulled across the windows that were most likely more mosaic panes of colored glass. The floor was the same polished wood as the main level of the cabin, the walls bare wood as well. A desk full of perfectly stacked papers and leather bound books was situated at the far wall, a bed against the other.

The head counselor and cabin leader lay propped up in the bed of silk sheets with a white bandage wrapped around her head, serving to secure a thick pad of gauze covering her right eye. 

“Percy, Hazel, gods I’m so sorry, I heard what happened.” She threw her sheets to the side, twisting to sit on the bedside. She made to rise but at the sight of Percy and what he held in his hand, the demigod froze.

“What the…,” she had no words.

Percy turned around to find Hazel was holding the beast’s flesh. She passed it to him without a word and the room went silent as Percy moved closer, holding out the hide in one and the corpse in the other.

“These symbols,” he said, voice barely a whisper but stronger than Riptide, “do you know what they are?”

Lou Ellen swallowed roughly, unable to look away with her single good eye. She nodded slowly as her head began to throb. “Phylogryphs. They are living incantations, words in glyph form etched into a material.” Her mouth went dry as she leaned closer. Percy watched her eyes widen as they studied the markings before she sat up, green irises flicking to the bird. And when she spoke it was with something like desperate denial, “The eagle… where did you find it?”

Percy said nothing, simply draped the hide— markings face down— over top of the bird.

“No, no you must be mistaken,” Lou Ellen gripped the bandaged side of her head, clutching it as if this were all a dream, or merely a product of her injury.

“What is it? What do they mean?”

“Phylogryphs can be used for many things. They are powerful and dangerous, it takes great skill and mastery of multiple elements of the craft to do properly. So many of my siblings were injured trying to learn them that I forbade the practice altogether about three years ago. Only two of my brothers and I are still versed in them.” Percy took a step back to not suffocate her with the stench of decay. After a trembling breath, she continued, pointing weakly to the markings. “Those phylogryphs were used to contain a living creature within another. But also to allow for external control of the inner being.”

“What?” It was Leo’s voice that sliced through the thick silence. “Wait so you’re saying… wait what?”

Lou Ellen nodded, not meeting any of their eyes.

“Lou Ellen,” Percy’s voice was edged with something truly dangerous, “did your mother do this? Is this her work?”

He’d been running on static, on adrenaline, he hadn’t stopped moving, hadn’t stopped raging ever since the bond deep within his spirit had shattered. Because if he did, if he stopped to think, stopped to let it all sink in, that’s when it would all come crashing down. That’s what happened when Lou Ellen looked up at him— not at his eyes, but at the bloody handprint on his cheek— and gave a slow, pained, sorrowful nod. That's what sent everything crashing down. 

Murder. Nico had been murdered. By Zeus, by Hecate.

And slowly, so slowly, so calmly did Percy turn around to face Annabeth.

“Tell me everything you know.”

“Perc-”

_“Tell me, Annabeth!”_

The roar echoed throughout the room, making their ears ring. A breath, a glance among one another, and then they told him everything they knew. Everything stopped. Time slowed. The pain in his leg was nothing but a distant ache as the information washed over him. As it drowned him.

If Annabeth, if the others, hadn’t kept this all from him, he would’ve connected the warning from the Fates, would’ve been able to talk to Nico about it sooner, would’ve put together a better plan for the battle, would’ve felt less alone the past weeks of sedation and confusion and guilt and— 

His brother would still be alive.

He would be _alive_

Percy took a moment to stare at them each, to look them in the eye, and then he pushed his way out the door. There were pleads and shouts and cries from behind him, but Percy did not stop as he fought the black spots in his vision while making his way through the hall, down the stairs, past the worktables, and out of the cabin.

As he walked by, campers everywhere stopped what they were doing— Greek and Roman alike— to watch the legendary son of Poseidon— still covered in gore, leg still ripped open, face still marked with a crimson hand print, hands holding monster flesh and a dead eagle— made his way through the circle of cabins. 

Some called out to him. He kept moving.

His camp necklace with all its beads suddenly felt like a noose. The eagle fell from his grip, the hide just the same and then leather gave way beneath his fingers. The beads fell to the dirt, his neck stained in the eagles blood still slick on his fingers. His strides didn’t so much as slow.

A mass of curious demigods followed from a distance but he kept a steady pace, not stopping until he reached the water’s edge. He looked out at the tide, at how the soft ripples in the water refracted the light cast upon it. He could feel his friends behind him, shushing each other as they neared. He could feel their worry, but also their sorrow. The sorrow they had caused. The sorrow he had caused. 

That all-too familiar feeling began to form, the clenching of his core that happened whenever he was about to use his normal powers, only he wasn’t summoning them. The feeling was instead the compression of his soul, the suffocating weight of what he had been too weak, too blind, too slow to prevent. He looked out at the view again, and caught himself glancing at a tree beside him. The oak was nothing special at first glance, but Percy knew its leaves provided the deepest shadows… for that is where Nico would sit everyday to chat with Percy or watch him train. Suddenly a hand was on his bicep, his writhing powers jolted at the contact, but it was Hazel who appeared in his peripheral. 

She gazed up at Percy. After a moment, he looked down at her with the slightest of smiles, but Hazel could see. Could see how the smile was nothing but an echo of his former self, and that his eyes were hollow. With a hand colder than ice, he squeezed hers before stepping out of her reach. 

In two strides the tide welcomed him, in four it wrapped around his legs, in six it cuffed his neck, until he was completely submerged.

From the waters edge, Annabeth held onto Leo’s arm— Hazel doing the same with Frank, Piper with Jason. The rest of Camp silent behind them. And all of the demigods watched in silence as the warrior who they had followed into countless battles, the lethal weapon who was only a teenager, the demigod they had laughed beside, fought beside, bled beside, disappeared beneath the surface.

At the shore, every Camper and Roman clutched onto the nearest demigod or tree at the tremors that suddenly rattled the earth beneath their feet. 

And then, the entire lake exploded. 

Fallen to his knees atop the rocky earth, the son of the sea suspended every drop of water from the lake high above his head; the son of the earth shaker split the ground before him in a gaping scar; the God Killer threw his head back— to the lake suspended above him, to the sky and clouds above the swirling water— with bared teeth as a roar to rattle the world ripped from the depths of his shattered soul.

Every demigod present knew they bore witness to the dawn of a new era.

* * *

As a minor goddess led the God King down the central spiraling staircase— the Spine of the Sanctum, they called it— he was reminded of last night. Of going the opposite direction, climbing up his own secret staircase of spiraling stone. Of entering the room and seeing his sister. And of all that came after.

Those shackles— a gift from Aphrodite to Ares, crafted based on her imagination by Hephaestus upon her request. Ares had been furious, being chained and shackled, bound and restrained was what he did to her— the fact she’d even suggested they reverse roles for once had set the war god into a warpath of proving his manliness and dominance. It had taken months for the west side of Olympus to recover from the onslaught. Aphrodite had brought them, the cuffs, to Zeus in a satin box and a bored expression on her face, practically flinging it to him.

“Here,” she’d said. “I’m sure you can find good use for my husband’s hard work.”

Indeed he had. Indeed he had.

Their otherworldly chill had been designed with the intention of bridging the gap between pain and pleasure— a line Ares savored crossing— but to a goddess whose essence was warmth and flame, they were far more than that. The idea had struck him just in time. Just in time to capture her; subdue her before she could alert all of Olympus of his connection to Nico’s death. 

Zeus brought a hand up to his cheek. In her thrashing when he’d been trying to secure the last band, Hestia had gouged his flesh. It was healed now, but strangely still burned. Her vain attempt to escape had ultimately been futile and when the last band was finally locked into place, her wide, unseeing eyes were empty, those irises a milky grey like ash. Then it had simply been a matter of calling for his mute centaur servant, carrying her to the dungeons far below, and locking her inside the furthest, darkest enclosure with the keys from his servant. 

The goddess inside, each bar of the cage had let out a faint throb as expertly etched whorls illuminated. The dungeon of Olympus, marks placed by Hecate when home of the gods was first forged. Most forgot of its existence, and it housed none until last night. 

“M’lady awaits through that door,” the minor goddess said softly, bowing as she backed away without turning. Zeus didn’t bother to nod at her or knock at the door before pushing through.

In her Morning form, Hecate stood across the room at a wooden table worn with age. Bottled tinctures and jars of salve lay before her in neat rows as she lifted a vial to the synthetic light pinned to the ceiling and filled it with the contents held within a dropper. Zeus closed the door behind him. Hecate lowered the dropper and glowing vial, placing them into holders before pinning him with that insatiably curious gaze.

“The creature I made you,” she said without so much as a greeting, “what did you do with it?”

He contemplated his response, standing tall as he weighed the pros and cons of responding truthfully. Allies, he reminded himself, he needed allies. Powerful ones. So he gave a tight nod with pursed lips, “What needed to be done.”

Her eyes went wide with disbelief, a hand raised to her mouth in horror, the other hovering over her stomach as she staggered, leaning against the table for support.

“No. _No,”_ she gasped. “It cannot be so. He was just a boy.”

So she had heard…

“He is a God Killer, Hecate. You helped me take down a being destined to be a murderer.”

Her heaving breaths halted, the billowing robes going still, as she brought her eyes up to meet his. “What did you say?”

“The Fates themselves confirmed it,” Zeus nodded before moving closer, stepping around the table and reaching out with a comforting hand, placing it on the small of her back. “We did a good thing, we eliminated a threat to Olympus, to humanity.”

Hecate was still, so still beneath his touch but then she broke from his hold, swirling away from the table and across the room with fury in her pale lilac eyes. “You _used_ me. You used me to kill a _child_ . When all he did was save my own! He saved the Greeks and the Romans. He defeated Echidna and her army. He saved us all. And you used my creation to _murder him!”_

With every word she spoke, her voice grew more hoarse, more deep and full, her hair and skin began to morph from the light blond curls and pale flesh to that of long silver locks and a mahogany complexion. Slowly, the transition took hold as the Night form struggled to be freed despite the sun that had yet to set and the day that was not yet yielded to the moonlit star speckled sky of midnight. The orange swirls on her skin turned a glowing ivory, contrasting against the white robes turned auburn. 

Zeus stepped forward again, tensing himself to call upon the lightning and strike down the witch goddess. But then an idea struck him like the bolt he’d begun forming in his palm. Because, as he’d learned before, if there was one thing each of the goddesses' three forms were united in… it was the love for their children.

“The son of Hades was without training, without control. He was about to decimate the Camp, kill your children and mine. The power he had, the power Perseus Jackson contains, it is not only Gods they are capable of eliminating.”

The transition halted abruptly, the goddess a mix of her Morning and Night form, the glowing whirls an ombre of orange and ivory, her robe a patchwork of white and auburn, her pale skin splotched with mahogany. 

“They are untrained?” The voice she spoke in crackled as if in static frequency as it shifted between the deep low and litted high.

Zeus evaporated the bolt in his palm, showing his palms and holding them up as he forced his shoulders to hunch in a nonthreatening, unimposing way. He forced his voice to strain, to plead, to waver with emotion. “Nico di Angelo was a danger to the demigods, to your children, to the children of every single god and goddess. You did not aid in the murder of an innocent boy, you created a beacon of hope that removed a devastating threat from existence.” 

The Night form began to recede, the Morning taking hold once more. Zeus stepped forward slowly, keeping his palms raised as he spoke softly to the delicate goddess who stared at the ground beneath her feet. 

“But I worry for the demigods’ safety, I worry about Perseus Jackson. You should have seen him just now in the Hall of the Gods, he is volatile. He is dangerous and unhinged. Our children will never be safe until his powers are removed. For his own safety as well. You should have been there to see the pain he was in. The _anguish_.” Zeus reached forward, taking her palms into his own. She did not resist. “Together, we can liberate him, free him of this treachery. And then we can free the others, those who are too strong for their mortal bodies to handle— Hazel, Jason… any demigod that rises above the rest. Because why should any be better than the other? Why should any demigod be more powerful, more revered, more loved than another?”

Zeus removed one of his hands from the clasp around hers to place a finger beneath the goddess’ chin and gently raise it. Those lilac eyes were haunted, yet clear. She closed them and backed away from his grasp, turning her back to him as she took deep, grounding breaths to think. Zeus prepared himself to launch another attack of disarming softness and words she wanted to hear. He opened his lips but his attempt to win her over was halted by her own whispered words.

“For the children.”

She turned fully to face him, holding herself in a tight embrace, shoulders slumped as loose hair hung in front of her face like a veil. She seemed unsure of the morality, seemed as though a part of her was unconvinced of Zeus’ words. But when Zeus smiled at her softly, she smiled back. 

The king of the gods nodded. “For the children.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let me just say... I had SO MUCH FUN writing this chapter!!!  
> Idk why but I was really vibing and it ended up a bit longer than I'd anticipated.  
> I feel like creating realistic dialogue is a weak point for me when writing so I tried to work on that in this chapter. Hopefully it turned out okay...
> 
> Anywhoosies I really really hope you like it! Can't wait to hear your thoughts <3
> 
> TW: lotta angst in this one, a lotta angst  
> minor panic attack  
> mentions of funeral preparation

Twenty six hours. 

It had been 26 hours since Percy last slept. And as he limped heavily into the lonely cabin— as empty as he felt inside— every one of those 26 hours weighted down on him. But he couldn’t sleep. He refused. 

Somehow his altered biology that estranged him from all the other demigods allowed him to stay coherent despite the lack of sleep; somehow his body wasn’t shutting down and he was still able to think and move— albeit with some restrictions from his injury. But no matter what his abilities granted him, he knew they would not spare him from night terrors. Because he knew unconsciousness would not bring a reliving of the past 26 hours; knew he would instead be trapped in one singular moment. 

A scream from his own lips.

A slow turn across the field.

A thud beside the fallen beast.

And that single command,

his brother’s last word:

_Live_

Percy’s body was not forcing him to sleep, at least not yet— so he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. And for that, he was a coward. 

So instead, he changed out of his fighting leathers, peeling the material from his tan skin that gleamed with sweat. With the blood drenched armor removed, he felt significantly lighter as he roughly bent down to change out of the shoes heavily crusted with dried mud. When that was done, he rose with a choked curse at the pain that lashed through his leg. He clamped his eyes shut on instinct, forcing his breaths to even as he waited for the pain to subdue. Both eyes flew open, flicking to the bottles Bethany had given him in the infirmary that he’d haphazardly strewn them onto the table when he’d walked into his cabin just now. Apparently the sedative Annabeth had given him on the _Argo II_ in the days and nights leading up to their arrival didn’t interact well with ambrosia.

“Besides,” he remembered the healer saying as she’d written the labels for each bottle, “it would take a potentially dangerous amount of ambrosia to heal this.” She had chided him as much as she dared for not seeing a healer sooner; the wound had gotten infected and he’d needed a blood transfusion to replace all he’d lost— not to mention twice as many stitches since it had torn further with all the fighting and running and walking and flying on Blackjack. 

If he had command over his powers maybe he could’ve… no. No he couldn’t heal things. His power had one use— destruction and control. He couldn’t heal things, he couldn’t. He was a God _Killer_. 

Bethany had disinfected it, stitched and wrapped him up, and sent him on his way with the bottles and a reminder slip of paper to return for her to check the infection and stitch progress in two days. There were two bottles. One contained antibiotics, the other painkillers— strong ones. He’d recognized them immediately. They’d been Gabe’s favorite. 

His wound ached and sent bolts of electricity up and down his leg, even setting his head pounding with a mixture of pain, grief, trauma, and exhaustion to the point it felt as though the Fates themselves were stabbing his temples with their knitting needles. Bethany had told him the dose she’d administered would wear off quickly. She’d told him to take two of the painkillers with a glass of water a half hour after leaving the infirmary. It had been an hour. 

Percy swallowed his dizziness and fatigue alongside the nausea from his empty stomach as he crossed the room to the small table by the front door where he’d set the bottles. He seized the pain killers, clutching the orange plastic container in one scarred, trembling hand. The bandaging on his leg that enveloped his knee as well due to the lacerations length made it difficult to walk normally, but he managed to cross the room once more and step out onto the small dock overlooking the lake he’d so recently wielded. Percy hurtled the bottle as far as he could, calling on the water to drown it, to drag it to the body of water’s deepest point.

Feeling the closest thing to contentment he thought possible at the moment, Percy turned around and made to call upon water from the fountain to clean the grime of war from his body. But on his way, he caught his reflection in the tall mirror attached to the wall and stilled.

The crimson hand print marking his cheek was tight with tried blood, flaking at the fingertips. Seeing it— that last mark, that last piece of his brother he had left— made Percy feel as though the Drakon from the Battle of Manhattan doused his entire body with its poisonous spray.

Beside the mark, his eyes looked dead— more like a swamp at midnight than the usual endless expanse of teal sea. His posture was slightly hunched from the altered gait he was forced to walk in but also what could clearly be seen as the signs of his sleep deprivation— hunched shoulders, slowly blinking eyelids, expressionless face, low set gaze. He was reminded of a wolf he’d met at the Wolf House. She’d nearly torn out his throat during a sparring session— halted only by Lupa. 

“Issues with rage,” the wolf goddess had offered in explanation. “She lost her mate years ago— attacked during a night patrol. Part of her died that night as well.”

He’d forgotten about her, forgotten about that dead stare and searing rage. But now… now he understood. Understood that it hadn’t been rage at all. No. It had been loss. It had been emptiness. The sort of emptiness that stripped away the capacity for normal emotion, leaving nothing but feral instincts, reactions of savagery. He stared into the mirror. The wolf stared back. 

He understood.

As he stood there before the mirror, leg bandaged, eyes dead, features gaunt, muscles tense, he felt a sort of hollowness in the pit of his stomach. It took a moment to push aside the hunger gnawing at him to realize what it was. What the emptiness truly represented.

Annabeth. 

He wanted Annabeth. Wanted to hold her, wanted her to hold him. No, not wanted, _ached_. He ached for her steady presence. A presence he could always, no matter what— no matter how many people in his life who’d betrayed or wronged him— he could rely on. Until now. Before the whole God Killer revelation, the one thing he and Nico had in common was their issues with trust— it was a trait he shared with Reyna as well and the basis of their initial respect for one another at Camp Jupiter. Nico used to tell him how lucky he was to have someone like Annabeth who, even when lost in his own mind or past or trauma, could always be relied on. No matter what. She was the voice of reason, the logical mind, the thoughts and ideas and opinions he could trust when he couldn’t trust himself. 

And when he’d needed her most, when he’d been more lost than in his entire life— when his fatal flaw was tearing him apart at the seams— she lied. Through her teeth, she lied to him. 

The powers inside of him flickered as if a prodding reminder that he was still a threat to everyone he cared about, a reminder that he could not be trusted with his own powers, his own body, his own mind. And now, he didn’t have Annabeth to guide him. He was on his own. Without his girlfriend, without his brother, without control over himself. 

Percy shook his head.

The injection sights on his arm tingled uncomfortably, shaking himself from his thoughts. He scratched at the red marks above his SPQR tattoo, still looking at the stranger in the mirror. 

If it were another camper, Percy would’ve demanded they go to sleep, immediately. Percy turned from the reflection and without washing the evidence of war from himself, limped towards his cabin’s entrance. When he stepped out beneath the starlit sky, he turned and headed for the sword-play arena. 

No one stopped him. No one dared.

* * *

The hearth across his desk that usually filled the room with a calming pop and crackle as it burned, was filled with nothing but ash and a hollow silence. 

It was unsettling, that silence. But he let the sensation fall into place right alongside that familiar guilt of losing another camper. He’d lost so many in his long life— so, so many— to the point he felt as though he’d mastered the agonizing art of grieving, mourning, and moving on so that he could help those still living who relied on him and prevent such a death from happening again. 

War, battle, massacre, sacrifice— Chiron had seen it all. He’d lost count of how many campers had been lost to the nature of their heritage, lost count of how many he’d sent on quests who never returned, lost count of how many funerals he attended. 

But no matter how many he lost, no matter how many pyres burned nor shrouded bodies turned to ash, Chiron never let the deaths turn him cold; never let them prevent him from treating the gods’ children as if his own nor from teaching and guiding them as if they had their whole lives ahead of them. Every time a demigod passed, it was up to him to be the steady, calming presence; the evidence and proof to the others that it was possible to survive such a loss. That it was possible to continue on. 

He set down the piece of parchment he’d been staring at for the past hour without really reading it— though each word carved a piece out of him at the memory of writing them— and lifted his gaze to the large open windows. To the moon still full from the solstice and the twinkling stars beside it, cloaking the midnight sky and drenching his office in that ethereal white light. Millions, trillions of flickering specks. He felt each one weigh down on him as if they were his lost campers. 

With a sigh that did nothing to ease the stinging discomfort in his soul, Chiron glanced back down at the parchment atop his desk. 

A promise. An oath. 

The words had been written by his own hand, using the quill and ink resting on his desk, and yet none of the sentences were of his own creation. He would never forget, in all of his days, the last words he had ever heard Nico di Angelo say to him. Especially not as they were inscribed on this parchment for eternity. It felt a mockery that the paper and ink tattooed upon it would outlive Nico— _did_ outlive Nico.

Nico… 

Yes, Chiron had become so familiar with the ache of surviving when so many he cared about did not, but Nico was not a loss that drifted among the others easily. Chiron himself felt lost. Nico had been an inspiration to every camper at Camp Half-Blood— to Chiron as well. A model of perseverance and determination, of remaining kind despite all the traumas he’d endured… Chiron had learned more from Nico than he’d ever taught the child of Hades. Never afraid or hesitant to sacrifice himself for the good of those he loved… it had been his undoing. Or so he’d thought.

Chiron hadn’t known what to think when he’d watched that pegasus, Blackjack descend from the sky, tearing across Camp towards the battlefield. Hadn’t known what to think when he’d seen the son of Poseidon return, marching into the forbidden cabin of Hecate and emerge— a limp eagle in his grip. Hadn’t known what to think when he raced from the Big House after the boy— to demand where he had disappeared to hours before, to demand he see a healer and to hold him as he grieved the loss of his friend— but been frozen at the sight of beads tumbling to the ground, then the eagle with them. And when that wind tousled raven hair vanished beneath the lake, when the body of water was forced to rise, to hover above the roaring child of the sea— Chiron could think only one thing.

God Killer.

He should have sensed it, should have known. He hadn’t wanted to believe it when Jason Grace had told him and the Head Councilors about the strange events that had conspired during the Seven’s journey aboard the Argo. Chiron hadn’t wanted to believe that he’d been so daft, so blind to see how Percy Jackson was different. It had been obvious from the very first time they’d met— when Percy had been recovering in the infirmary after defeating a Minotaur with no training— yet Chiron had assumed it was simply due to his godly lineage. Not this… never this. In his three thousand years of life, Chiron could count on one hand the number of God Killers he had encountered. All of which had died gruesome deaths before the age of maturity— before their ‘special’ abilities could manifest, before he had a chance to even attempt training them. 

And when Chiron had seen from the edge of Camp Half-Blood’s shimmering border Nico, exploding with shadows and darkness, when he’d seen the aftermath of Echidna’s army’s slaughter and heard the campers whisper about what the shadows had forced them to see… Chiron knew. Percy Jackson was not the only God Killer. 

It was impossible, or at least it would have been had Nico… had he survived… for there to be two living beings of the same destiny. And yet, it had happened. If but for a moment in time and space. Chiron was a firm believer that the universe spawned no anomalies— everything had a reason, everything a fate. Meaning, for there to have been two born with the ability in their DNA to end an immortal being, it was no mistake. But he could not shake the feeling that Nico’s death had not been preordained by the Fates. 

Chiron was lost in thought, staring down at the inked parchment without reading those words burned into his mind, that it took him a moment to realize the miniature mist fountain by the far window was calling out to him.

“Chiron! Chiron, are you there?”

Rising, Chiron quickly stretched his legs and made his way over to the iris message, wincing at the sound of his hooves against the wood floorboards that split through the silence.

“I am here, are you alright? Has something happened?”

Chiron tried to keep his voice calm and level despite the rising anxiety at seeing Dionysus wide eyed and fidgeting through the mist. The god of wine’s presence had been requested for a two week long conference with Demeter and some minor gods to discuss the coming harvest and grape cultivation. Despite their sometimes tense relationship, Chiron would be lying if he said he hadn’t been missing his friend. That blundering, sometimes chaotic energy would have been appreciated during the battle planning, and in the events that followed. Dionysus had called every few days to give a— usually very drunk— retelling of his day on Olympus, but it seemed as though fear had burned through whatever nectar he’d consumed for the day as he looked frantically side to side before leaning closer in a hushed voice.

“I am fine and yes something happened. But first, is Pollux safe? Did he survive the battle?”

“Yes, a few minor scrapes here and there, but he is alright.” Chiron was glad to ease some of the stress lines in his friend’s face, but then his head hung as he added, “But, Dionysus… Nico di Angelo he… he d—”

“I know,” Dionysus said, clamping his eyes shut for a moment. “I know.”

Despite Dionysus not outright showing affection or pride to any of the campers— not even his own son— Chiron knew the god cared very deeply for them all. Every immortal had different ways of dealing with the inevitability with losing those they cared about, while Chiron preferred to not let that keep him from bonding with the demigods, Dionysus had taken a very different approach throughout his years. After losing many of his own children, the god had taken to being distant and not allowing himself to make meaningful connections. And yet, that had been real fear in his voice when he’d asked about his son, just as it was real pain that flashed across his features at the acknowledgement of Nico’s death.

Having spent so long together, Dionysus must have sensed Chiron’s question and responded after clearing his throat. “Council was held this afternoon for only the Major gods, but Demeter came to me after and told me everything.”

“Dionysus, what happened?”

The god looked around again, the moonlight making the mist image twinkle as he did, then he answered with a question of his own, “Did you happen to notice Perseus Jackson missing earlier today? Say, just after the battle?

Chiron swallowed roughly past a lump in his throat but managed to nod.

“He was here, Chiron. In the Hall of the Gods.”

_“What?”_

Dionysus nodded, features haunted in a way Chiron had never seen on his friend as the god said, “Apparently, he strode right into the throne room, announced that Nico was dead, accused the council of using the demigods to fight our wars, blamed Zeus for the casualties of the recent battle, and verbally attacked his father. Everyone knows now, about Nico’s death and… suspicions are high regarding how Nico was able to defeat Echidna and her army… and how Percy was able to… how he was able to pin the King and Queen of the Gods to their thrones without laying so much as a finger on them.”

Chiron found it difficult to breathe, his tail flicked behind him anxiously as he built up the courage to keep his voice even and ask, “Did he kill anyone?”

Dionysus shook his head, but there was weariness there. “Something is not right, Chiron. There is a sense of unease and tension, like the calm before the storm clinging to the halls of the palace and the streets of Olympus. And the King… Zeus is seeking out each god, speaking to them privately. He has yet to request my presence.”

“What does he want?”

“I do not know. Demeter would not tell me, though she was acting strangely tonight when we had dinner. Colder, almost. If that’s even possible.”

Chiron very much did not like the sound of that. Quickly, he filled Dionysus in on the events of Percy’s return. Dionysus let out a curse beneath his breath.

“Eagle, you say?” He lowered his voice to the barest of whispers, “Could it be that Zeus… that he…”

“I do not know. But you know how he is about his throne. Be careful, Dionysus.”

His friend nodded. “I will, but I am going to do my best to figure out what is really going on and— Oh! Another thing,” he said, interrupting his own thoughts, “are the hearths out at Camp?”

Chiron glanced beside him to the empty chasm, lit only by the moonlight. “Yes, once night fell they did not ignite. Leo Valdez volunteered to go into each cabin and do so manually for the hearths inside and each brazier outside. The flames were going out, so Lou Ellen is helping cast spells to sustain them throughout the night.”

Dionysus nodded more to himself than his friend. “Good, good.”

“Why do you ask?” Chiron questioned, almost too afraid to ask.

“Because not a single flame burns in all of Olympus. Every single hearth went out about an hour ago.”

That unease rose again, twisting his gut. He shifted on his hooves to ground himself in the meaning of Dionysus’ words. “What do you mean, went out?”

“Exactly that.” The god averted his gaze in thought, still not looking up as he pondered, “Last I heard, Hestia was in Africa… Botswana I believe. I wonder if something happened to her?” He looked up, “I’ll try to get in contact with her, let you know what I hear.”

Chiron nodded in thanks. The silence they fell into was heavy and then it was Chiron’s turn to wonder aloud. “Have you heard anything of Hades? Was he at the council meeting?”

Dionysus shook his head. “Hephaestus and Hades were not present… nor was… _she.”_

“I don’t know whether that is a good or bad thing,” Chiron admitted.

The god gave a lopsided smile, “Neither do I. She did vow never to return to Olympus. Perhaps she will hold to that, perhaps we were wrong in assuming she cared for Nico.”

“I do not know,” Chiron shook his head, wrapping an arm around his torso to balance his other elbow against it and hold his chin in two fingers. “But it is fortunate they have not destroyed Olympus yet or demanded penance.”

“I fear that is only a matter of time, my friend,” Dionysus said with something like dread. “Day by day, Chiron. We will take this all day by day.”

Despite everything, the centaur let the slightest of smiles grace his lips. It was a phrase he’d often told Dionysus when things got tough. During those times when it felt as though everything they’d built and done was for nothing. So he dipped his head and echoed, “Day by day.”

Dionysus parted his lips after a moment to say something, but startled and yelled out over a shoulder, “Be right there!”

He turned back to Chiron, leaning forward one last time to promise, “I’ve got to go but do not worry, old friend, I will see what I can find and keep you posted.”

“Thank you, Dionysus. Please be careful.”

A mischievous smile was the last thing the mist showed, that voice saying ‘always am’ the last sound that emerged. And then, his friend was gone, replaced by a steady flow of mist that glowed in the moonlight. Chiron braced his forearms on the window frame, relishing in the breeze that flowed through the opening. He’d had the glass panes removed decades ago, finding it calmed his nerves to know he could hear a scream or threat better this way. It also allowed him to hear the sounds of his camp. Tonight, the breeze carried nothing but silence— only the distant ruffling of harpy feathers and an even more distant clang of a single blade against what sounded like stone. He had a feeling who that could be.

Chiron took a deep breath and went back to his desk but did not sit down, instead placing the parchment— heavy with the weight of the words it bore and the voice it immortalized— into a drawer and locking it inside. He then reached for a box atop his desk and removed three golden drachmas before heading back to the small mist fountain.

Twenty minutes later, Annabeth, Jason, Frank, and Piper were standing across the desk from him. He nodded in somber greeting and gestured for them to take a seat. Annabeth remained standing beside Piper’s seat. Chiron had known the daughter of Athena for long enough to recognize the strangeness in her posture. Cold, jaw set, eyes of steel level yet charged— as if the war had not entirely left her. Where the other three demigods seemed clouded in their grief, Annabeth looked sharpened by it. By that and something more; so much more.

When Chiron had heard the news of her and Percy’s fall into Tartarus, it had taken him days to remember how to even think clearly. She was the same demigod before, and yet not at all. Especially after the events Jason had described only yesterday of her boyfriend’s volatile evolution. In all his years of knowing the legendary daughter of wisdom, Chiron had never seen her eyes filled with such hatred, nor trained on him in such a way. He could only imagine the thoughts filling her brilliant mind. She must blame him in some capacity for Nico’s death and for Percy’s lack of control and for not having much knowledge pertaining to the entire situation. And in no small amount, Chiron did blame himself. He gave her a slight nod, hoping to convey such a feeling. She did not smile.

“Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice. I know it is late, I will be brief. Dion— ”

“Why are you up here, Chiron?” Annabeth interjected without so much as an apology. “It might be late, but you must know none of us are sleeping.” That distant clang in the distance rang through the silence as if in testament to her harshly spoken words. “The Romans wish to have a funeral here and the Aphrodite cabin is hard at word creating extra shrouds.”

Annabeth’s gaze remained pinned on Chiron and he remained trapped in those unforgiving irises even as Piper cleared her throat and said with a voice hoarse from tears, “We could use your guidance on the logistics and organization of such a large and sensitive… occasion.”

Chiron bowed his head to the daughter of Aphrodite, breaking free of Annabeth’s glare to say, “Of course, I will head to Cabin 10 when we are finished here.” His eyes flicked to the locked drawer of his desk. “I apologize for my absence this evening, I needed some time to—”

“Hazel and Will are preparing Nico… Nico’s body right now,” Annabeth cut in again. Jason flinched at the bluntness of their reality but said nothing, none of them did, as Annabeth sneered from behind their chairs, “Had to sedate Reyna to move her from his side. She nearly broke the arms of two Roman sentinels who’d been helping.” Movement caught Chiron’s eye— Frank shifting in his seat, left arm black with bruising in the shape of a hand print. “Leo’s guiding an injured Lou Ellen— three healthy eyes between them— around camp to light all the extinguished hearths and Percy—” 

That metallic clang from across the campgrounds sounded again, striking her core, revibrating deep within her spirit. She did not finish voicing her thought. The other demigods hung their heads, hunched their shoulders, as the weight of the day became overwhelming. They were all silenced by it. Chiron never realized how much he relied on the crackling hearth to bring him comfort, to bring the weary peace, until now— now, when it was gone. Without the warmth or it’s organic ability to bring shattered souls together, Chiron felt empty— hollow. And Annabeth’s words clinked into the chasm of his core like used up bullet shells on a marble floor.

“What is it you would like me to say, Annabeth? What can I do to help ease your pain?” 

It was a phrase he often said, a phrase he’d said to her for years whenever she was drowning in the depths of her own mind. It had become their way of connecting, his way of providing a space for her to let her walls down and speak what was on her mind freely without fear of judgement. So many had abandoned her throughout her lifetime that he knew she found some sort of relief in knowing Chiron was always there to listen, and that nothing she would say would make him leave her too. As she’d gotten older, whenever he said it, she’d smile and unload her thoughts, but now… now Annabeth narrowed her gaze.

“Don’t become like the gods.”

Chiron bowed his head deeply, closing his eyes in remorse. When he met that face once more, he was taken aback by how similar the demigod staring down at him looked to her mother. The resemblance was striking. Chiron cleared his throat and tried again, “Percy… how is he?”

“How do you think?”

Jason cleared his throat, answering with a strained politeness that told Chiron the Roman shared similar views to Annabeth, “He, uh, he hasn’t slept.”

“Neither have any of you,” Chiron pointed out, gesturing to the postures wrecked from exhaustion and the pieces of armor and battle still covering them. Annabeth scoffed, barely concealing a wince as the metallic clang grew louder, more frequent in the distance. Rage. It sounded of rage and pain. 

“None of us killed as many Romans, or had a bond severed, or made an entire lake explode. None of us went to gods know where with a rip in our leg worth twenty seven stitches.”

Chiron swallowed past the lump in his throat and placed his hands onto the desk, leaning forward. “Yes, regarding that… it is the reason I called for you all. Dionysus called just now from Olympus. He said Percy was there… in the Hall of the Gods.”

Annabeth’s fury faltered. She couldn’t make her voice work, thankfully Piper said, “Sorry what?”

So he told them. Everything Dionysus had said, he told them. When he was finished, Annabeth’s eyes were ever so slightly widened, but also cool and calculating. She looked to the floor, chin between two fingers, lost in thought.

“It sounds like Zeus is trying to cover his tracks,” Jason whispered. Frank shook his head, shifting to the edge of his chair and bracing his unbruised forearm on his thigh.

“No, it seems as though he’s gathering support. Allies perhaps…” The eagle flashed across Frank’s mind and his voice drifted off as he looked over to Annabeth, “Whatever he’s done… he isn’t finished. This must have been just the beginning.”

Annabeth’s jaw was corded as she clenched it, bringing both hands up and slowly, slowly dragging her fingers through the blond waves of her bound hair. Her chest began to heave, breathes going shallow and rapid.

This was too much, too much. All of it, it was all it was too much. Murder they were talking about orchestrated murder. Organized and planned and she hadn’t seen it hadn’t sensed it. Child of Athena, of wisdom of hubris— that fatal flaw that had damned them all. God Killers God Kings Fates it didn’t make sense none of it how could she be so blind how could she know so little? And answers? She had none. She didn’t have answers, didn’t have anything she was drifting she was lost there was nothing she had no answers she didn’t know didn’t know didn’t kn— 

“Annabeth?” 

The voice was soothing but it didn’t matter, how could it matter she didn’t deserve it’s softness, didn’t deserve it’s salvation. She didn’t deserve it didn’t deserve anything not when Percy— Percy, Percy, Percy— not when he was dying inside. She knew he was she knew he was dying and it was her fault her fault he’d gone to Olympus he’d wielded Zeus and Hera’s ichor he’d nearly killed them he could have killed them could have killed them all or even himself and it was her fault she’d she’d done this to him it was all her fau— 

“Annabeth, look at me.”

She shook her head. There was a sound of clopping hooves nearing but that voice halted the familiar noise and like a siren, lured Annabeth’s eyes up. Piper smiled softly. She was standing in front of Annabeth, hands on either shoulder with a gentle squeeze to help ground her.

“Good, that’s good. Can you breathe for me? Come on, do it with me,” she exaggerated her breathes, brows creased in worry but still with that encouraging smile. “In, and out. Good, that’s it. In, and out.”

After a few more breaths, Annabeth was able to break the hold. She took a jerky step out of Piper’s reach, running a hand across her face. Her palm came away the color of rust. Was she cut in the battle? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t feel the sting until now.

“Thank you,” she said to Piper breathlessly. The daughter of Aphrodite closed her eyes and nodded with a smile. Annabeth turned back to Chiron who was now standing beside his desk.

“Are you alright?” Jason asked.

“Here, would you like to sit down?” Frank said, already rising from his chair. But Annabeth shook her head with a weak smile of thanks and a nod to Jason.

“I’m fine. I just… is it alright if we continue all of this plotting and scheming and theorizing and everything after the funeral?” She took another breath, her heart thundering. “That should be our main priority right now. Seeing to it that the dead are properly honored. Then we can get back to worrying over the dealings of immortals and whatever horrors they have in store for us.”

Chiron looked as if he’d object, but stopped himself and nodded. It seemed as though he was trying to keep himself from crossing the rest of the distance to embrace her. Good. Annabeth knew she would fall apart in his arms and never rise if he did. 

“Dionysus said he will inform me if he discovers anything.” Chiron bowed his head, tail flicking. “If he gets in touch with me, you will be the first to know. I promise.”

Annabeth nodded once, twice she could hear the rhythm of her beating heart pounding in her ears but she’d heard him. She heard Piper say she’d stay behind and discuss logistical matters for tomorrow's funeral procession, and Jason offered to stay with her as a Roman ambassador. Annabeth nodded again, turned around with a bit of a sway and exited the room. 

The stairs creaked beneath her unsteady feet. She took them two at a time, descending ungracefully. Every breath felt like glass slicing at her lungs. She took her hands from the railing to clutch her ribs that ached with bruises from the battle that felt had somehow been just this morning. This morning. How had so much happened that this morning felt like a lifetime ago. Her thoughts tumbled as she did, nearly falling down the last few steps but a strong hand caught her.

She looked up through loose strands of blond hair strewn across her face so caked with filth to see Frank. She muttered a thanks and made to push past him, needing to get out of this building, out of this place where just down the hall she’d lied through her teeth to Percy before the battle. Where she’d stood, knowing Jason was telling the Head Campers and Chiron the information the six had been withholding from Percy. But Frank stepped in her path. She reached for her blade on pure instinct, but Frank raised his hands.

“Annabeth,” he whispered, “it’s alright. We’re all overwhelmed, you have every right to be.”

The son of Mars might not be blessed with the ability of charmspeak, but his voice was soothing just the same. Her mind continued to race but that voice eased some small part of her. She lowered her hand from the pommel of her dagger, clasping it with the other to hide the trembling. 

“I’m sorry, Frank. You know I’m not usually like this, it’s just…”

“Hey,” he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, “you don’t have to explain. Would you like me to walk you back to your cabin or do you need to be alone right now?” She continued to wring her hands and he could see she was lost in her own mind; trapped in the chaos, so he removed his hand, not wanting to overwhelm her and stepped back. “Either is fine, I won’t be offended. Promise.”

Annabeth forced her hands to still and her eyes to meet his. He was taller than Percy and she had to tilt her neck to see those kind eyes. “Thank you, Frank. I-I think I’ll be alright to head back on my own.”

He gave a nod, “Okay sounds good, please try to get some sleep and holler if you need me or any of us.”

She opened her mouth to ask if he would rest too, but saw the answer in his tired eyes. No. No one was sleeping tonight. So instead, she took his hand in her own and squeezed it.

“I will, thank you. Please let Hazel know my door is open if she needs me. That goes for you as well, Praetor.”

The Roman stilled. “I’m not a Praetor.”

“Yeah well you better be soon, Leo and I started a bet with some of the Romans sleeping in those silly tents.”

Frank let out a deep laugh that rumbled the floorboards. “Yeah, sure thing.”

Annabeth could almost feel a smile on her lips. Almost. With the slightest twitch of her upper lip, she waved goodbye and pushed through the exit as Frank turned the way they’d come, back upstairs to discuss the mass funeral.

Her surroundings were a haze as she made her way to Cabin 6 on instinct alone. The stars above blurred into streaks as if they were bleeding and the cool breeze pushed her feet forward, urging her to take one after the other until she climbed the two stairs and felt that familiar wooden door adorned with an owl insignia beneath her palm.

Brothers and sisters greeted her through open bedroom doors, knowing to keep their distance from the Head Counselor and allow her space to think, though they called out words of support and genuine love. She stumbled through the praise of her battle prowess and the warm offers of condolence that wrapped around her body. Blinking slowly, breaths just the same, she finally made her way to the farthest corner and practically fell into the door to open it. She barely had the coherence to shut it behind her before collapsing to the floor.

She lay there for a moment, watching as the walls closed in and the ceiling fell to crush her before she scrambled to the nearest wall and tilted her head back, pressing it into the wood. She was distantly aware of the body laying on the floor across the room. The Praetor did not turn to face her, remained on her side and motionless as the statue of Annabeth’s mother she’d nearly killed herself transporting. Whether the sedative still had its hold or not, Annabeth didn’t have the capacity to care at the moment. A memory flickered of her telling whichever healer who’d administered the drug while Frank and another Roman screamed beneath the Praetor’s grip to bring her here. She remembered hearing someone in the chaotic room suggesting they take her to a tent in the field of Romans, but Annabeth had shuddered at the thought and demanded she be brought here instead. The sedative must have worn off because she was certain the healers wouldn’t have placed the Praetor on the floor with nothing but a blanket. 

She was safe, that was all that mattered. She was safe and alive. Annabeth closed her eyes on the room as it began to spin like the thoughts in her mind— swirling faster and faster and faster.

It wasn’t until Chiron had told them of Dionysus’ report that a switch flicked in her brain. It was as if a fog had cleared from her mind, allowing her to see the truth she’d been so blind to. Each line of the prophecy blared in her head, burning bright with epiphany.

_At an hour most unholy_

The day it had all happened— the Solstice

_when unity hangs by a thread_

The two camps meeting on the battlefield— Octavian’s refusal to unite

_stern solidity turns to ash_

The Parthenos that had turned to ash, the last to disintegrate had been that of Athena’s stern expression

_bonds strengthen_

The unification of the camps to turn on Echidna rather than one another but also the reunion of Percy and Nico as they felt the bond for the very first time

_bonds shatter_

The demise of Octavian but also that brutally severed bond between the two God Killers

_Beloved blood soaks the earth_

Annabeth winced as the image flashed across her mind’s eye of Echidna’s broken, mutilated body frozen in a silent scream over thousands of corpses. They had thought the word ‘beloved’ was a clear nod to demigods— for who loved more fiercely than Half-Bloods destined to live and die at each other’s sides? 

A mother.

A mother who loved her children so much that they weren’t monsters… just her children. She’d loved them so much that she had agreed to battle the demigods, to soak the earth with their blood to raise Gaea and guarantee a safe future for her kin. It was such a foreign concept to the demigods— a mother wanting what was best for her children— that none of them had even fathomed it a possibility. And then there was the last line… 

_to unleash darkness incarnate_

It hadn’t been the demigod’s blood to soak the battlefield. And it hadn’t been Gaea who’d been unleashed. The blood and ichor spilled had been that of Echidna’s monsters from the will of Nico, and the darkness unleashed as a result… Annabeth had been uncertain of what that meant until this morning. Until she’d seen the gleam in Percy’s eye, heard the growl clinging to his voice.

It wasn’t the blood spilled that had risen potent darkness inside Percy— no. It had been the sacrifice of the tide turning, of Nico giving his life to ensure that the prophecy was in their favor. That the blood soaking the earth wasn’t from their friends, and didn’t awaken Gaea.

And the discovery they’d made— that eagle sunk deep within the beast who fatally wounded Nico— it had only solidified the rising darkness that was Percy Jackson. 

Whatever game Zeus may or may not be playing, Annabeth hoped he knew what he was doing. Hoped he knew what nightmare he was coaxing, knew what vengeance he was awakening— prodding with a stick, more like. She hoped the God King knew, and hoped he was trembling beneath his crown of the lethal mistake he’d made the moment he thought taking Percy’s brother from him was beneficial to his tyrannical reign. 

Even with her eyes clamped shut, she still felt like she was spinning so she lowered herself to the ground, flipping over with a thud to lay on her back.

Annabeth remembered making that promise to Percy, remembered feeling as though she were doing the right thing— protecting him. She’d immediately known what the consequences would be should things go wrong, but it was a risk she’d been willing to take.

It hadn’t been worth it. A slight, initial sting of knowledge could have prevented a mountain of despair and grief deep enough to drown in. It hadn’t been worth it. None of it had been. Withholding information, lying, preventing him from stopping the beast, guilting him into not attempting to use his powers and potentially staunch the bleeding. Each decision had been to prevent the possibility of Percy losing control and hurting his friends— his family. She had been trying to keep him safe, keep him from the guilt and pain that would haunt him if he lost control. And yet, she’d failed either way. He was in pain, and his brother was gone. It hadn’t been worth it. She would bear Nico’s death on her conscience for the rest of her days. She would live each day, each hour, knowing he was not because of her. She would pass Will, knowing the dark circles beneath his eyes were because of her and the future he’d planned with Nico would never be reality. Because of her.

It hadn’t been worth it.

It hadn’t been worth it.

Annabeth didn’t know she was succumbing to her exhausted, sleep deprived body until it was too late. She released a sigh as the gaping maw of night terrors latched onto her tightly, dragging her down, down, down. A tear escaped from her closed eyelids and a smile graced her lips as she succumbed to the dark grasp willingly. 

And the torture?

It was _righteous._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Been a while!! Sorry about that, I had final exams for my summer classes and as much as I wanted to be writing this and Carpe Lucem, I really had to focus on studying and all that annoying stuff. 
> 
> Anywhosies, I hope you enjoy this! Please let me know what you think <3
> 
> TW: funeral

Reyna recognized the haze clinging to her mind as sedative the moment she gained consciousness. Despite the drugged daze and heavy fog of sleep, her head immediately swiveled over her shoulder to look for Nico, to make sure he was in his sleeping bag beneath the Parthenos. But there was no Parthenos. No sleeping bag. No Nico.

Her heart skipped a beat from the fear that speared it. Jolting up, her hands were like claws against the pine wood floor beneath her. This was wrong, where was the forest? Where was Nico? Where was she?

Brows scrunched in confusion as she took in the room around her from where she sat beneath a single blanket on the floor. It was immaculately organized, schematics and blueprints, battle maps and sea shells hung on each wall that was swathed in the lightest shade of blue Reyna had ever seen. Removing the blanket from her, she found she’d been changed out of her armor and into a plain purple shirt and denim shorts. The furrow in her brow deepened as she tried to force the haze in her mind to dissipate. None of this made sense. Why had she been sedated? Where was she? Where was Nico? 

Trained instincts told her she was not in peril nor could she detect any threats after a moment of listening to her surroundings. But where was Nico? She had to find him. She needed to apply salve to his bruises, check his stitches, make him breakfast and discuss their next jump. They needed to get going. 

She made to rise, but her head pounded, her core burned, and her throat… when she parted her lips to call out for Nico, she’d let out an involuntary yelp instead. It felt as if her vocal cords were shredded, and a metallic taste that coated her mouth told her they might very well be. Gripping the floor, she tried again only to wince and clamp her eyes shut, waiting for the pain to subside, only to have it shatter the haze as memories threatened to drown her. Because that pain, she knew that pain. From hours of screaming and pleading and crying and singing. And her hands, they felt strange— they felt empty. For she had held him between her aching arms, had held his corpse that had grown heavier and heavier with each verse, with each scream, with each cry, with each plea. 

She clawed at her throat while strangled, broken sounds like that of an injured wolf erupted from her lips causing the mutilated vocal cords to bleed. _No. No no no._ It had been a night terror, it had been a vision from the song of shadows, that was it, that was it. It hadn’t been real. She might have been able to convince herself if it weren’t for the very real and vivid pain in her throat. And the ring on her finger.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

And she could swear she felt every rib shatter from the weight of everything colliding within her.

Her. It was supposed to be her that died. She who had nothing, who had lost everything and everyone until Nico. Until meeting him and deciding she was capable of trusting someone else with her heart. But now… now she truly had no one. Nothing. A husk, that’s what she was. A soulless Praetor with no legion, a wolf with no pack.

Reyna noticed something beside her and leaned over to set it in front of her. The worn zipper felt familiar between her fingers as she opened the largest compartment. Laying the splayed fabric beside her, Reyna climbed into her sleeping bag and lowered herself back down before flipping over onto her side.

It still smelled of national parks and sweat and blood. Reyna breathed deeply and stared at the cabin wall she faced until unconsciousness inevitably overtook her. And yet, as she drifted, Reyna could feel the emptiness of a space without the Parthenos, without a bonfire, without Nico. 

The last though she had was that of a question: 

_Is it possible to die of grief?_

She hoped so. _Gods_ , she hoped so.

But she knew better. The universe wasn’t that kind.

* * *

The noontime sun streamed through the columns of the exposed bridge like rays of light through water, casting pillars of shadow contrasting against the stone as Zeus strode across the structure that connected the eastern wing of the palace to the main. Nymphs of all colors and sizes brisked by him— some of which were familiar and threw looks of either fear or suggestive winks— but the God King paid no mind, merely looking down his nose as he pressed on. The open-air passage was not commonly used by the major gods, it mainly served for nymph servants, handmaids, message deliverers, and minor gods. The latter of which kept their distance to the far side of the rail-less bridge and averted their eyes, bowing slightly though not as low as the nymphs and lesser creatures, as their King stormed by. 

Zeus himself had neglected to use the bridge for many years, having no reason or need to visit the gods whose residence it served as. Housing the palaces multi-level library as well as the separate chambers of Athena, Ares, and Apollo.

Athena had created and designed the east wing to be a sanctum of knowledge— thus the library and living arrangements of she, Ares, and Apollo. Battle strategy and architecture, warfare and weaponry, medicine and culture. Each massive pillar erected from the bridge’s surface was masterfully carved in such a way to depict each of these pillars of knowledge. Scenes of the most brutal of wars, the most successful battles won, the deadliest plagues and most awe inspiring miracles, the most famous buildings, the greatest compositions of music. There was another, for the east wing originally housed four Olympians, the last piece of supreme knowledge.

From atop the bridge that was high enough above Olympus that the gods and beings mulling about the streets were mere specks, Zeus could see in the distance Hecate’s Spire. The structure was alight with its colored mosaic panes in the scorching, bothersome noontime sun. Zeus could see why she had deigned to leave the east wing and, with Athena’s assistance, create a place of her own on the land of the gods. 

Inside the spire, he knew Hecate was working tirelessly on a more permanent and reliable method of containing his sister. The shackles had nearly reached capacity, wearing out more quickly than he’d anticipated due to his sister's infernal nature. He had not visited her since locking her in the depths of the long forgotten dungeons, though his mute centaur servant who he had entrusted Hestia’s surveillance, had brought written reports that the chains and manacles were failing, soon to lose their hold. 

Zeus released a grunt before turning his gaze back to the approaching end of the bridge. Hestia better find a solution soon— to the continued containment of Hestia, but also for a way to reignite the hearths and braziers of Olympus which had been without a solitary lick of flame ever since Hestia’s capture. The minor gods, and even the major, had begun asking difficult questions regarding his sister's whereabouts and the objects which were so tied to her essence. Zeus was beginning to have trouble keeping up with his delicate web of lies and had even considered revealing all to Hera, if only to have someone else to help him remember the angles of his scheme and manipulation. He shook his head with a scowl, causing a passing nymph to nearly faint with fear in thinking the gesture was directed towards her. But his mind was on the thought of telling Hera.

His woman believed herself mighty. She could not help him, she could do nothing for his hollow queen knew nothing of the intricacies of control, of dominance, and knew even less of the ruthlessness required to maintain it. She could yell and scream all she wanted, could bare her teeth like a lioness as much as she dared, but when it came down to it, that pitiful excuse of a predator yielded every single time beneath his hand. Zeus puffed out his chest, taking a deep breath as he finally reached the entrance to the east wing and stepped beneath the silver plated archway.

The God King squinted, eyes adjusting to the dimmer setting of the entrance’s worn, earth-toned interior and he moved further into what he remembered now to be the top-most level of the library. It was massive, truly a sight to behold.

Much like the Spine of Hecate's spire— which had been fashioned after the library itself— it spiraled down the five levels of the library, each level a circular design with shelves upon shelves of books and scriptures bound in leather of many a species hide— most of which, at this upper level, were likely long since extinct. But Zeus was not here for books, was not here for the knowledge Athena guarded and organized with her immortal life nor the goddess of wisdom at all. And so, the God King made his way to the spine and began the long descent to the first floor as minor gods bustled by, arms heavy laden with books or scrolls or record keeping clipboards. None of them paid their King any mind, not even making a single effort to bow as they hurried by with minds too full of whatever task they sought to carry out or from the corner of knowledge they had been tasked with maintaining. Zeus might have raged for the lack of disrespect, but as it were, he was grateful for the invisibility as he made his way down, down, down. 

Each step felt heavier as he did. The exhaustion tugging at his facade made him on edge, hyper focused and it was becoming more difficult to feign the heroic mask he’d painted for himself. As with Demeter, Athena, and Artemis the previous day, successful alliances were made with Poseidon— his brother still in such a state of shock, guilt, and disarray to the point where convincing him that killing Nico and stripping Percy of his power was for the good of his son and the demigods of both camps had been simple, much to Zeus’ relief. Hours ago he’d left his brother staring out on his favorite balcony in the palace, an untouched chalice of nectar in his hand and that thousand mile fisherman's gaze where the sea god likely still stood. 

Zeus had then gone to Ares, confident that his winning streak would continue— especially with his known hatred for the son of Poseidon. Much to the God King’s surprise, Ares had been of the opinion that Perseus had finally become worthwhile, finally become of interest. Something of a weapon akin to the grenades and rifles strewn on a table behind him or like the machine gun he’d had positioned against his shoulder, cheek pressed gently against the firearm and sunk a round perfectly into the mannequin’s heart without the use of a scope or aid.

Ares had brushed off Zeus’ explanation, actually interrupted him with the sounds of another masterfully executed mannequin, claiming he could care less about the di Angelo boy and his untimely demise. And that he didn’t give two shits as to Zeus’ involvement or Zeus’ rehearsed lines of how it had been for the good of Ares’ and the other gods’ children. All he cared about was Perseus, and what his type of power could mean, what it could do if properly honed. Ares might have been on the opposing side of Zeus’ plans, but the God King couldn’t help but admire the gleam in Ares’ eye, the hunger for power and victory. And, should his plan completely fail, Zeus would seek out that predatory energy and bend Perseus’ power to his will. He would make a true scythe out of the boy. 

The thought of a backup plan filled him with ease as he at last took the last stair and landed on the solid wooden floors of the library’s ground level.

Zeus had left Ares in peace, urging him to return to his marksmanship, and left with the sound of bullets and gunpowder ricocheting between his ears as he strode off, making a mental note to seek out Aphrodite before the days end to ensure Ares did not sway her. He needed the goddess of soul bonds and that caustic emotion she called ‘love’ on his side when Persephone reared her head at last. The thought sent his legs moving a bit quicker as he made several turns through the labyrinth of hallways, following the walls carved like the pillars from the bridge. Finally, he reached his destination. He would see Aphrodite soon, but first… 

His knuckles rapped on the golden door a moment before it swung open. Zeus stepped inside, closing the door behind him as he moved further into the room and halted.

Walls adorned with various instruments of music, medicine, and battle, Zeus stood atop the wolf hide rug— likely a gift from Artemis— among it all. Modestly sized was the chamber of the god of many, simply the main room in which Zeus now stood that contained heavy laden walls, a bed, a dead hearth, and a single archway at the far wall through which an easy melody floated through.

The music ceased at the sound of the door shutting behind Zeus and a being with an aura of faint golden light emerged in the arched passway. Apollo leaned against it, his armor clinking, and crossed his arms. He said nothing as he slowly took in his father's presence, finally meeting the thunderous eyes that Zeus instantly softened as he slipped that mask of his facade that was growing stale and worn.

Zeus parted his lips to launch into his rehearsed lines, but found himself hesitating at a realization. The glow, it was not its usual vibrancy— it was faint. For his son had an eternal glow about him, as if a second skin of light that clung to him since the day of his birth— a glow with an intensity that Zeus had witnessed dim only once before, when Apollo had been within an inch of his life. Covered in ichor, face ripped and beaten to an unrecognizable degree— that was the only time Zeus had ever seen the glow diminish. When he had been limp at Zeus’ ichor stained feet, beneath his dripping fists. The glow, it seemed, was a result of being in close proximity with death. And since Zeus had very recently conversed with Artemis— the twin showing no signs that her brother was dying— the God King came to a conclusion. It was an effort to keep his tone light.

“You visited the Underworld recently.” And though he did not phrase it as a question, Apollo shrugged, the golden plates of his armor scraping against the marble.

“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s not why you came though.” Not a question either, a fact, delivered by the god who made no attempt to step into the room or offer the King a place to sit.

“And what is it you mean by that?”

“Oh _please_ ,” Apollo rolled his haloed eyes. “I was wondering when you would show up at my door. Seems you’ve managed to corner nearly everyone else. Should I be offended or grateful it took you so long to get to me? Where do I sit on your list?”

Zeus had prepared himself for such predicaments should the gods catch on to what he was doing. Therefore, Apollo’s words did not disarm him as he showed his palms in a mildly pleading manner and said with a steady calmness, “My intentions have not been that of ill faith. I only seek to clear the confusion brought about by recent events. Yes, I have sought out the others to explain, as I am here to do now.”

Something flashed across the other god’s eyes, setting the ire of his irises alight. He said nothing as he pushed from the archway and crossed the room, sitting on the ledge of the dead, ashen grey hearth. Zeus had stopped talking, snagged in the memory of Hestia sitting just like that before he’d captured her. Apollo, not Hestia, cleared his throat.

“Go on,” the god of light’s voice was almost pained but he straightened his posture and met Zeus’ gaze.

“I saw that Nico di Angelo was overwhelmed with power. I ended him to prevent the inevitable. I saved both camps from the boy’s abilities, and the boy himself who was clearly incapable of wielding such power.”

Apollo remained silent, those eyes seemingly holding the hearth’s phantom flames within each orb, his faint glow casting into the ash and painting it a rich yellow. After a few moments, Zeus shifted his weight, the wolf fur beneath his shoes sliding beneath them. 

“I am holding an extended council in two days' time. To vote for the removal of Perseus Jackson’s powers, for he has demonstrated such abilities as the di Angelo boy as you saw, as well as the reduction of Jason Grace and Hazel Lavesques’ to a safe and manageable degree.”

Apollo still did not answer. For long enough that Zeus was reminded of Hades’ stillness. Apollo truly must have visited the supposed _‘King’_ of the Underworld. He parted his lips to change subjects and press about his theory in an effort to glean any useful intel on the status of Hades and Persephone when Apollo’s eyes narrowed.

“What game are you playing, father?” He said in a near whisper, as if speaking to himself in deep contemplation.

“Must there be a game for me to act on the potential destruction of an entire race?” Zeus countered. “The demise of your children and those of the other gods?”

Zeus caught his mistake too late, but kept his mask pinned tight to his features as Apollo’s brow furrowed, those eyes narrowing further. 

“You have never cared for your own children, why should I believe you care for any of ours?”

Zeus let out a gruff laugh to break the sudden tension, “Why the hostility, my son?” Apollo winced but Zeus took half a step forward. “The di Angelo boy is gone, your children are safe and well, their beloved camp is once again thriving, and a future calamity has been averted.” He crossed the distance between them, extending a hand towards his son, ignoring the chill that seemed to radiate from the hearth behind Apollo. Zeus forced a smile to spread across his taught features. “Come, let us celebrate.”

A faintly glowing, sun brazen hand rose to take the extended palm as Apollo too rose. He slapped the God King’s hand away, nose wrinkling as his blindingly white teeth bared.

“My son loved him,” Apollo breathed, voice shaking with tremors of rage. “Will _loved_ Nico and you took that from him. You took that. I will never forget what you have done. I will never forgive you. And I,” he leaned close enough for Zeus to feel the beginnings of a sunburn from the miniature solar flares dancing atop his skin, “will _never_ join you.”

Zeus yielded a half step to his son’s caustic rage, instantly relishing in the coolness of not being so near the raging heat. He took that half step but not another more as he shed his mask baring his teeth right back and looked down his nose at his son despite the other god being nearly the same exact height.

“Do you forget how you paid for your insolence the last time you allowed such mortal-like emotions to rule you?”

For the first time in eons, centuries, millennia of life, Apollo went against his very nature to allow a shadow to cross over his eyes, allowing the darkness to cling there. He crossed the distance between them, scorching his father with burning aura and hushed words.

“Tie me to a post in the heart of Olympus’ streets for all to see, lash me for ten thousand years with a leather whip soaked in poison, for all I care. That would hurt far less than what you have forced my son to endure.”

“Maybe I will,” was all Zeus could manage to get out as his mind rattled with barely contained fury. Through the window panes, the sky grew dark as thunder cracked overhead. Neither father nor son yielded for a heartbeat. And then another. And then, Apollo’s lips pressed into a thin line, the barest hint of a smile— a challenge.

“Well,” he ran two hands down the gold threaded fabric of the King’s jacket, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles before flicking his eyes back to those thunderous nebulae, “you know where to find me.”

With a wink and a flash of a smile that was more so a feral display of his teeth, Apollo took inspiration from Hades and let silence trail him as he removed his hands and strode past the King of the Gods for the exit. Apollo slammed the door shut behind him.

* * *

Hazel did not cry at the funeral. 

Not a single tear wet her cheek nor welled in her eye. Not as they covered him with a shroud— a beautifully ornate piece of fabric heavy laden with decorative silver thread, embellished with only the purest of rubies and darkest slivers of onyx. She should know, she had made it.

And yet she did not cry. 

Not for the injustice, not for the loss.

Not as Jason and Will and Percy and Reyna hefted the stretcher, none buckling or wincing at the weight. Not as she and Frank and Piper and Leo and Annabeth followed close behind. No crystal liquid slid from her golden eyes. The only crystals were those woven into the skull decoration. She did not cry as she stood beside Frank— out of reach but close enough to feel his presence— as the four lifted the stretcher up onto the pyre. And she did not cry as Chiron set the kindle aflame. 

She did not cry when her brother's body burned. 

Nor did she cough when smoke and ash choked the air. She did not cry because she was not sad. She was not angry. She was not anything. Hazel was numb. And numb, she somehow knew, was far worse than all the tears she ought to be drowning herself in. 

When the flames died out, when the fabric had magically disappeared and the body beneath, she spoke to no one, not even Frank, as she turned to leave. She couldn’t feel the earth beneath her feet and her senses did not register the chill of the night air. And when she found herself suddenly on a rooftop, she did not question it. It wasn’t shadow travel, she’d simply walked and climbed and now sat. She hadn’t registered any of that either. 

And so she sat on the obsidian rooftop, she sat atop her brothers cabin, and when she looked down at the empty pyre, at her friends and family huddled around it all lost in their own minds, when her gaze drifted to the long line of Greeks and Romans under various shrouds of their own awaiting the flames, when she saw the unification of sorrow and pain from those still living… 

Hazel felt nothing.

* * *

Eighty seven bodies burned. Percy didn’t know how many he was responsible for. He didn’t care. They’d threatened his family. Each one was a success, no matter how piercing the wails were from the Roman side. The only sounds that struck him were those of his friends, of his family.

He watched as the last shroud went up in flame, watched as the last body became smoke and ash and then nothing. Would they reach Elysium? Or be sentenced to the Fields of Asphodel? The Fields of Punishment? Or would they become that of stars? It didn’t matter. They were nothing now. Nothing but ash on the wind that musically vanished against the backdrop of the bleeding sky as the sun descended. The sun had not begun to set until midway through the burnings though it was supposed to have hours ago— almost as if the sun god had not wanted them to be cast in darkness for the occasion. For that, Percy was grateful. Grateful that his brother’s body had not left the land of the living beneath a midnight sky, but beneath the sun that he cherished more than even Percy ever knew— would ever know.

Percy watched that last body burn and he thought to himself, _how many funerals can someone attend before they turn nineteen?_

He’d lost count. But after today a comfortable approximation seemed likely in the realm of two hundred and fifty.

There were tears in his eyes, tears he refused to wipe away, refused to hide. He didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care what anyone thought. Didn’t care. His arms ached from lifting corpse after corpse onto the pyre as he had done for every single shroud covered Greek. His arms ached and his leg was burning with what was likely more than a few ripped stitches and a renewed infection. He’d accidentally thrown the antibiotics into the lake, unable to bear seeing a pill bottle despite having discarded the pain meds hours before. It didn’t matter. And his powers, they had been strangely silent, at ease almost. As if calmed by the death and potent emotional anguish of the substantial crowd. But the powers did not writhe, did not threaten to rise, so Percy didn’t care.

The ashes of the last body drifted into the air, and vanished. The sky above now a deep maroon. Percy turned his back to it all, not caring to conceal his limp or slouched shoulders either. He still had not slept, not since the last time Annabeth had sedated him on the Argo before arriving. Back when the battle had not yet been fought, back when there was time to adjust plans— to prevent the mass funeral he had just witnessed. And the death of his brother.

He could feel Annabeth’s eyes on him, could feel the gazes of the rest of the seven— with the exception of Hazel— boring through his back as he limped off. They followed, but did not stop him. They did not stop him, but a Roman that must’ve had a death wish did. 

Larry, the newly proclaimed and sole Praetor of New Rome stood in Percy’s path. It’s not like Percy knew where he had planned to go, but the Roman leader and his squadron of Centurions who flanked either side of him along with a small group of Romans who had drifted over now stood in Percy’s way. And that, _that_ Percy cared about. He felt the Greeks crowd behind him, Annabeth and Frank a ways back but solidly placed at his sides— Jason and Piper, Hazel and Leo a step behind.

“Thank you for allowing us to honor our fallen soldiers,” Larry said, extending a hand.

Percy looked at the pristine skin for a moment before clasping his own around it. The Roman swallowed a slight grimace that he tried to hide quickly, but Percy saw it. Because while the so-called Praetor had calluses, not a single scar marred the flesh, and his nails were well kept. In contrast, Percy’s hand was practically scar tissue alone, calluses thick, the back of his hand flecked with pale lines against his tan skin and marks of bruising from the battle. The knuckles were peppered with scabs from the previous night when he battled a stone pillar in the sword-play arena instead of sleeping. The sound of Riptide against the stone had become overwhelming so he’d taken to hand-to-hand combat against it. A few bites of ambrosia had healed the worst of it and taken the edge off his leg, but it didn’t matter.

Larry released the grip of steel and unceremoniously wiped his hand on his pants.

“Sure,” was all Percy said in ways of response. He really didn’t have the energy or coherence to have this conversation, but exhaustion blurred his hospitable social skills and had him clearing his throat with a slight dip to his head. “It’s time for you all to head on back to New Rome. Go have fun playing Praetor until Frank is ready to return to Camp Jupiter and lead.”

The gathering of Romans before him blanched in shock and Percy felt the Greeks behind him tense in anticipation for a fight; heard Frank let out a strangled gasp. Percy didn’t tense nor did his powers stir. Nothing but pain, grief, and exhaustion filled him. It didn’t matter.

Larry recovered after what felt to Percy like a lifetime. “Frank is not Praetor, I am.”

“Oh really? What is it you’ve done in your time as a Roman, Larry? ‘Cause I can tell you what Frank’s done.” Percy began to pace that invisible line drawn between the two camps, limping heavily with each step. “Lets see… Frank single-handedly defeated three basilisks at once, commanded an army of undead Legionnaires, and helped unite Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter. Not to mention having aided in the capture of the goddess Nike, traveling through the House of Hades, defeating giants, mastering shapeshifting…” Percy halted, his leg practically crying out in thanks. “But please, by all means, tell me of your struggles, of your accolades, of your worthiness to the mantle of your people’s highest honor. Tell me how honorable it is for you to be the predecessor of Reyna, the most noble and legendary Praetor your camp has ever seen. Stand here and tell me that you are the rightful heir to the honor of Rome.”

Percy didn’t think Frank was breathing. He didn’t think anyone was. Percy pinned Larry with his gaze, watching every minuscule twitch on his features. He had to hand it to the Roman, that face was nearly entirely blank. But then Larry squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes.

“For Nico di Angelo’s sacrifice, we are eternally grateful. But you murdered Octavian. The Parthenos may be restored, and our unity with it, but Rome will _never_ forget what you did.”

There was no humor in Percy's dead eyes. Nothing but the wolf stare he'd long since perfected as he said, "Good." 

Larry let out a huff of disgust and disbelief at the unrefined nature of the demigod before him. He made to turn but that voice, so lifeless, made him stop.

"If you ever so much as step foot on Camp Half-Blood with ill intent, they will never find your bodies."

And as if to make up for the fact that he'd winced, Larry straightened his posture, raising his chin as all the Romans did when their honor was questioned. He narrowed his eyes at the Greek whose face was unsettlingly cold. "Is that a threat, Jackson?"

"No." Percy said, finally allowing the barest of smiles to ghost his lips. There was nothing soft in his smile, nothing warm or reminiscent of the troublemakers' crooked grins that would electrify a room. This look was cold, it was calculated, it was terrifying. "A promise."

Larry was smart enough to swallow his disdain and tilt his head to the legionnaires beside him, not taking his eye off of Percy as if in anticipation for the Greek who looked half corpse half god to attack. "Gather the legion, we depart at sunrise." 

* * *

Percy staggered into his cabin, falling against the door as he shut it. His head was burning, hair plastered to his forehead. Head leaning against the shut door, his gaze fell to the table at his right. His muddled mind chided him for discarding the medicine. He stayed still— as if he could trick his leg into not hurting if he didn’t move— and tried to dreg up the energy to call for the lake to return the thrown bottles. Just as he made to act, he let out a sharp cry. Because the waiting powers within struck, wanting to be released after so long in slumber.

It wanted out it needed out but he couldn’t he couldn’t let it free he couldn’t give in. Voices rang through the wood behind him— cries and muffled chattering, a few hesitant laughs. Too many people, his loved ones. He couldn’t hurt them, he couldn’t let himself lose control. But he couldn’t keep it contained anymore he needed to sleep but he couldn’t do that either, couldn’t surrender to the visions and memories he would surely drown in. Too dangerous and painful to stay awake, too frightening and painful to go to sleep. He was trapped. 

He was trapped.

The God Killer began to cry. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!!! I had some spare time today and wrote this entire chapter in one go. I was going to wait until my usual posting time but couldn’t bring myself to wait haha. I’m very proud of this one and had so much fun writing it :)   
> Okay here ya go, hope you enjoy!! (As always, thank you so much for reading <3)  
> TW: mentions of death, grief, dissociation

_ If you ever step foot on camp half blood with ill intent, they will never find your bodies _

The God Killer’s promise rang in Jason’s ears. The looks of deceit and betrayal from his old camp, his old family who had irreparably disbanded moments ago, still smoldered his skin. It took every ounce of self control to keep his hand intertwined with Piper’s as they slowly made their way towards his cabin. Her touch burned just as much as the echoes of those Roman glares, burned as if he’d placed his hand into the pyre so many had just been turned to ash upon. 

His entire body tingled, sensitive to the ashen air, to the slight breeze, to the feel of his girlfriend’s fingers wrapped around his own. Those sensations he knew well, for it was electricity that surged throughout him, sizzling along his neurons and across his flesh. He released Piper’s hand before he could accidentally shock her. She gave him a nod of understanding and they pressed on, climbing the hill. For a moment, as they ascended, nothing existed but the two demigods and the midnight sky, a void-like canvas speckled with flickering stars. It was incredible, it took Jason's breath away and he stopped to let the endless expanse of space fill the hollow place in his core with hope. But then, at the realization that Nico— Nico who loved the stars, who would climb to the highest mast each night on the Argo to bask in their glory— would never see them again… that realization killed even the smallest millivolt of energy within him. 

Piper cleared her throat gently, daring to run a hand along his back in comfort. Jason smiled at her, she smiled back. He had a feeling his face was just as pained. With a nod, they continued on. Cresting the hill, Jason forced himself to turn around and look down at the funeral sight. 

Several demigods— both Greek and Roman— still stood around now empty pyre. Some unmoving, some embracing one another, some seated on the ground or nearby logs. Even from the distance, Jason knew their eyes were unseeing, glazed with the loss and anguish of all that had transpired. Jason’s attention was drawn to the pyre and he could see that shroud, see the diamond skull Hazel had so painstakingly created, see the meticulous detail of their father’s insignia adorned with gold and silver filament and countless other gemstones, most of which had been bloodred— a way to honor the love shared between Persephone and the boy she had claimed her only son. It was a wonder the shroud had burned at all. But it had. It had burned just as the body beneath. Everything had burned. And now… now Nico was gone. In Elysium, Jason hoped, but gone from the land of the living forever. Never to see the stars or the moon again, never to sit beneath his favorite tree by the lake, never to hug his sister or laugh with his found family or feel the freedom of confiding in his brother.

That hollow place in Jason’s chest grew, a tingling sensation beginning anew but this time it wasn’t faint jolts of electricity. It was in his eyes as they threatened to swell with tears. Jason frantically turned around, chest heaving, and walked away from the sight that played over and over again. His arms still held the memory of hauling Nico’s shrouded form up onto the pyre with Will and Percy and Reyna. He ignored the fatigue and took Piper’s hand once more as they crossed through the circle of grass, weaving through the crowds of demigods all in various stages of grief and mourning, to the very center of the arc of cabins. 

He caught Frank’s eye, the son of Mars looking shell shocked as he sat on the circular stone edge of the massive bonfire— not a single flame within the dead hearth. What Percy had said to Larry, what he had proclaimed to both camps had been… it had been true, so unbelievably true. If any a demigod, the mantle of Praetor belonged to Frank. He seemed to know it too, but hearing the God Killer testify unflinchingly and with such impenetrable confidence in the Roman… Jason knew he wasn’t the only one who had felt every word as if a bolt of lightning. Not charmspeak, but the way Percy had limped back and forth along that invisible line that would forever divide the two camps, Jason had felt his entire body thrum with the power before him, had felt his very blood sing. Jason didn’t want to know how much of that had been Percy’s doing, how much of that the God Killer had done without even intending to. Jason nodded tightly to Frank as they passed, the lone shifter— Hazel nowhere in sight— could barely lift his head that Jason had a feeling was immensely heavy with the racing thoughts held within.

Jason’s hand jolted, Piper pulling him down as she stumbled over a rough patch in the grass. She mumbled an apology, he only wrapped a hand around her and pulled her forward as they continued on. Without the massive bonfire ablaze, the space was dark with nothing but the light of the stars and sickle moon high above to illuminate their path through the crowd. Lou Ellen and Leo had yet to ignite it or any of the hundreds of braziers for the night as they had since the mysterious disappearance. It had been a feat just to get the funeral pyre to ignite and Leo had been drenched in sweat by the time the last body burned, as he’d had to manually coax the flames for the entirety of the procession with Lou Ellen silently at his side painting whorls on his arms to keep him from depleting. She had wanted to charm the pyre itself, but for the shrouds and bodies to turn to ash and vanish in the air, she had informed them that it had to be flame and nothing more. She worried meddling with magic would interfere with the archaic process or influence the spirit’s judgement in the underworld. 

So Leo had stood beside the pyre for every single one of the eighty seven bodies, had kept the flames dancing rather than raging, and had not allowed them to dim. Not once. Jason had been rendered speechless by the feat and when at last Leo allowed them to extinguish only to fall, Jason had tried to get to his side and help him to his feet, but a group of his siblings were there in an instant. They had hefted him onto their shoulders and escorted him away, all chattering amongst themselves of which inventions or gadgets could cool him off the fastest when Jason had noticed the gathering and Percy approaching Larry. Jason shook his head that had begun to throb and squeezed Piper’s hand, more to remind himself of her presence than anything.

It was a relief when he finally closed the enormous double doors behind him, shutting out the sounds of tears and hushed voices. Jason was instantly filled with self hatred for finding relief in such things— in having a part of his tension melt away by ignoring and running away from the reality of all that had happened. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and followed Piper through the antechamber and into the main space. The soft cracking of thunder filled his ears and he again hated the comfort it brought him to hear the sounds. Moving further into the cabin, he looked up at the dome shaped ceiling and the intricate image painted into it. But it was no image, it was a moving painting of a storm— clouds traveled across the dome, dark yet luminous by the flickering dashes of lightning and rumbling of thunder. He lowered his gaze to the marble room so empty except the bed he’d placed in the farthest corner what felt like a lifetime ago. Piper made her way to it, resting on the edge. She watched silently and without any indication of judgement as Jason slowly made his way across the room. Slowly, because along the walls and by the windows, hung and rest dozens of golden eagles. Eagles like the one Percy had pulled from the beast in the field. He lowered his eyes from them as if they would just go away, but his gaze caught on the bandage around his arm. He closed his eyes with a grimace. It wasn’t physical pain that was the reason for the extensive white wrapping at his forearm. Put pain nonetheless. 

It had felt so unbelievably disrespectful to have it at the funeral— had made him sick to his stomach. To stand and watch his body burn while the very animal that had caused it was marked on his arm forever. He’d covered it right before taking his place at the left foot of Nico’s stretcher, wrapped it with white bandage until the dark brand could not be seen. And though he intended to keep it concealed that way until he could find a way to remove it, Jason knew it was there no matter what he did to hide it. And even if it could be removed, it would always exist in his mind. 

Jason finally got his legs to move and he reached the mattress, situating himself on the edge beside Piper as he remembered the look on Percy’s face from the right head of Nico’s stretcher across from Will. While the son of Apollo had stared at nothing but the gemstone encrusted shroud with crystal tears in his eyes, Percy had flicked his sea green gaze to the bandage on Jason’s arm. The feral rage that had consumed his features for no more than a heartbeat had not been lost on Jason, it had sent a thrash of electricity through him, as if his energy was trying to flee, to hide deep within him at the apex predator’s striking glare.

Piper’s comforting touch on his thigh did nothing as he recalled the way Percy had dragged his eyes from Jason’s desperate attempt at renouncing any relation to the cause of grief ripping them all apart and instead behind them to where Annabeth stood behind Frank and Hazel. Jason never thought he’d see the day where the daughter of wisdom— who had been able to smile and laugh after surviving Tartarus— would be so crushed by the weight of reality. She had placed her arms around herself as if trying to keep herself together, and her breathing had been shallow as she’d looked at no one and nothing but the grass beneath her feet. And where Percy used to always relax and be so unbelievably at ease and peace by the sight of her, he had instead tensed with narrowed eyes and a clenched, grinding jaw. 

Percy hated Annabeth, hated them all. And rightfully so. Jason was just as much to blame for Nico’s death as Annabeth. He’d fought Percy on the Argo when he’d been at his lowest point; he’d given into Percy’s rage and pain— fed it, fueled it, even. He’d denied Percy peace of mind. He’d denied Percy the trust he deserved. Jason was not arrogant enough to blame Annabeth for any of his own actions. He hadn’t wanted to tell Percy either— he’d been afraid. It was his own cowardice that had kept him silent, that had driven him to tell the Head Counselors and Chiron in the Big House while Annabeth led Percy away to not hear as Jason unveiled all that he had kept secret from his best friend. That was a title he no longer deserved. Would never, not in a thousand years, deserve. He deserved nothing but the guilt— not forgiveness, not friendship, not even mourning. Releasing the pent up breath he’d been holding left him deflated, shoulders hunched, famously perfect posture wrecked. 

Piper ran a hand along his back, up and down his spine in a way that would have had him reaching for his blade months ago— exposing such vulnerability had been a forbidden thing in his past life. But now, he melted at Piper’s touch. He was grateful she said nothing as he lowered his head into his hands, bracing either elbow on his thighs. The gentle rolling thunder from the dome above did nothing to quell the rising anxiousness in his core as he tried to put words to his thoughts.

“I don’t deserve to grieve, not nearly as much as Will or Hazel, Percy or Reyna. I’m at the bottom of the list.” Piper urged him onto the mattress, helping to prop him on the pillows beside her. He stared up at the dome as words continued to pour out of him. “Percy is becoming more unhinged with every damn hour and hasn’t slept at all— the rest of us barely have either. Will hasn’t left the infirmary since the day Nico passed— only for the funeral. Hazel is a walking ghost. And Reyna…”

Gods, Reyna. She hadn’t been seen since the day they drug her from Nico's deathbed— only by Annabeth with whom she had been living in her room in the Athena cabin. The funeral was the first time Jason had seen her and she’d looked… there were no words to describe the particular brand of broken the legendary Praetor had seemed. She had not so much as acknowledged his existence, or any other, as they’d prepared and carried Nico’s body to the flames. But he understood. Jason had intended on going over to speak to her— to say what, he had no idea— but when he’d glanced in her direction on the other side of the pyre to see her reaction to watching Nico’s ashes vanish, she was gone.

“Percy and he considered each other brothers, Hazel was his sister, Will and he had an entire  _ future  _ planned together, and Reyna of all people grew to genuinely  _ trust  _ him. And then there’s  _ me _ .” He spit the word as if it were acid burning his tongue. “It’s just... they deserve to grieve. They knew and loved him more than I’ll ever be able to comprehend.” He shook his head, “Whatever I’m feeling doesn’t come close to what they’re going through.”

Though not a child of Hades, though unable to sense the grieving, Piper could feel Jason’s heartbreak, could feel the heartbreak and severed bonds of the Seven— of Percy, of Hazel, of Reyna, of Will, of every Greek and Roman who lost someone to the devastation. Piper noticed Jason spoke not to her but to the bandaged tattoo his gaze was burning a hole through. She turned her head against the pillow and reached out, tilting his chin to force his eyes to meet hers. 

Piper opened and closed her mouth, opting to instead brush the hair from his forehead for a heartbeat or two. She ran her fingers through the blond locks and finally parted her lips. “You and he were friends. The right to grieve isn’t a competition, it's not something to be won.” She placed a hand over his heart, a heart radiating guilt and sorrow that echoed through the chasms of her own. The thunder above them tumbled down, trembling within them. “Listen to your heart. Listen to the pain. Don’t run from it, don’t feel unjustified in feeling it. Confront it. Let it hurt, and then let it go. Do you remember the last thing Nico told us?”

She knew he did, knew they all did. Knew it was forever etched on their very spirits. And yet Jason nodded slowly and rasped,  _ “Live.” _

His final word. The only command he’d ever made in his entire life.

Jason met her eyes, not hiding how tears welled in his own. “What happens now? I-I don’t know what to do.”

Piper took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Now, we help our friends. We remind them that this is not the end. That this is not what Nico wanted. Because, in their own ways, they are all running from their pain. So now,” she repeated more to herself than to him, “we help them.”

Piper gazed into his eyes, sky blue and brilliant though lined with silver. She wiped away his tears and smiled faintly. He smiled back and her heart soared. Leaning over, she placed a gentle kiss on his brow and ran a hand lovingly across his cheek, tracing a finger down his jaw to coax the tension from it. And then she turned to her other side and rose from the bed, pushing off the edge to her feet. 

“Where are you going?” Jason asked with a furrowed brow, already making to rise and follow. Piper only smiled sweetly.

_ “Sleep.” _

The son of the God King collapsed and the daughter of Bonds shut the bronze doors quietly behind her as she stepped into the dead of night.

* * *

As Piper hurried back through the crowd, she didn’t allow herself to stop and consider what it meant that she felt more powerful than ever before at all the heartbreak radiating from her gathered friends and family. All around her were bonds broken and shattered— heartbreak everywhere. It thrummed within her in a way the thunder from Jason’s cabin’s dome never could. It made her feel alive. 

She was startled by the revelation, taken aback and— if she was being honest— intrigued. Very, very intrigued. She had thought herself at peak power during the time aboard the Argo, where bonds were forged and strengthened with every passing day, every passing mission. But now… now she was realizing why such phenomena as heartbreak and shattered bonds existed. They were powerful. Immensely so. She had always wondered why her mother was considered important enough to have a throne among the council of the Major Twelve. But now she was beginning to understand.

This time when she passed by Frank, the rattled destined-Praetor looked up and raised a brow. She lifted her hand half wave, half to hide her expression that was most definitely not appropriate given the circumstances as she ducked away, pushing through the bodies— some bustling to their cabins, some standing in shock and embrace. She wove herself, hoping to get lost in the sea of campers and away from Frank’s observant eye. Risking a look over her shoulder a moment later she found he had returned to staring at his open palms as he sat on the stone ring of the dead bonfire. Piper grimaced to keep from smiling, her mind and heart and essence all warring within her at once as she made way to the opposite end of the cabin arc. She was spared from the internal battle the moment her hand at last touched the glittering white door before her. With one last look over her shoulder, the glimmering material gave way as she pushed her way inside.

She marched her way into the cabin that was more akin to a den, filled with exotic looking rugs and blankets and ornate pillows strewn around the entire interior to the point she couldn’t see the floor. Fairy lights adorned the ceiling, shining a warm muted yellow through scarfs of various calming colors. Everywhere she looked was soft or warm or soothing. The ambiance was something out of a dream, the sweet aroma of lavender and hot chocolate embraced her like an old friend. With each step across the strange floor, she felt her exhaustion weigh her down, down, down. She could stop for a moment, just for one. Rest her head on that pillow over there, shut her eyes on harsh realities and fear. Just for a moment. Piper stopped moving for the bed across the room, eyes blinking slowly as they fell to the plush bundle of blankets at her feet.

Piper was just about to give in, to lay down and shut her eyes on the world but she snapped out of it violently, shaking her head with disgust. She was Piper McLean. She would not be subdued.

When she reached the bed, Piper cleared her throat, hands on her hips before spearing down at the lump atop the floating mattress with her voice, “Clovis, wake up.”

The lump groaned, but two eyes opened barely halfway from within the folds of sheets and blankets. Piper met those eyes, narrowing her own, daring them to close.

“ You are going to help me put Percy, Will, Reyna, Hazel, Annabeth, Frank, and Leo to sleep tonight, and every night if need be. Dreamless, restful sleep. Understand?” 

Clovis blinked heavily with exhaustion before pulling his fluffy blanket up over his head, turning onto his other side so his back was to her. His voice was muffled by the blanket as it floated over his shoulder to her through a yawn, “ ‘m not supposed to. Chir… Chiron said so.” 

Piper clenched and unclenched her jaw and both fists hanging low at her side. Without warning, she reached across the bed, seizing the blanket in both hands, and pulled with all her might. Clovis barely stirred even as his body was flipped around to face her and the blanket ripped from over top of him. The soft material she now held clutched in her white knuckled grip was thrown to the ground, her core fluttering in delight in time with a particularly loud wail from beyond the shut doors behind her. 

She launched forward, taking Clovis’ shoulders and shaking him until his eyes opened again. Bringing her face close enough for the feather of the harpy she’d single-handedly dismembered to brush against his rosy, plump cheek, Piper whispered into the dim light. “You listen to me. My friends are hurting, and I’m going crazy not being able to help them. Do you know what it’s like to be able to actually feel their heartbreak?” She didn’t tell him it wasn’t a bad sensation, but he didn’t need to know that. The going crazy part was at least half true. 

Clovis’ chocolate eyes went wide in a way she’d only seen once— when Percy had ordered him before the battle. The demigod stammered beneath her glare, “W-well no b-but—”

“Exactly, so you are coming with me.”

“No,” he blurted when she grabbed his nightshirt. But, seeing the expression on her face, he backtracked, “I don’t w-want to… I can’t, he… Chiron, he will be… h-he’ll be angry. I’m n-not allowed—”

A part of Piper that she’d been distant from these past few days whispered,  _ you’re being rude, don’t threaten him. _ But she shoved the voice down and spoke to the boy through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to charmspeak you— I need every ounce of both our strength to do this— but I will.” She let him see the truth in her voice, the promise in her face. “I will.” 

She wished she had Percy’s wolf stare he’d pinned Larry with earlier, but whatever expression was on her face seemed to be enough because it was all Clovis could do to nod as he gaped at the daughter of Aphrodite. 

With a huff, she turned on her heel and made for that glimmering door. “Glad we could be civil about this. Come along, we’ve got work to do.”

* * *

“We have to keep him distracted”, Piper whispered to the demigod beside her, “Distracted so he doesn’t sense you. He can’t know you’re there, can’t know what we’re trying to do.”

Clovis’ labored breathing was his only response and she prayed he knew how to be silent, prayed he was clinging to her every word or else… the memory of being on the Argo, her fingernails embedded in the God Killer’s temples flashed across her mind. And that look of fear and anguish when he’d awoken, realizing what she’d been trying to do.

_ Don’t you  _ ever  _ do that again _

God Killer or not, Percy needed sleep and he needed it now. If her estimates were correct, it had been well over forty six hours since he had slept— and the last time he had, it had been induced sleep from the sedative Annabeth had administered. Piper was willing to do whatever it took to bring him some semblance of peace or relief, even if a few hours was all she could provide. 

Too soon they reached the front steps of the Poseidon Cabin. Piper jerked her head, signaling Clovis to go around back. He nodded, those molten chocolate eyes still wide. Good. 

Piper herself took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before masking her features to be that of non threatening concern, clearing her throat to be that of soothing and comfort— she drew from the recent emotions that had filled her from being in the Hypnos Cabin.

A knock, a voice— both weary and muffled— through the door, and then she was pushing into the first of many cabins for the night.

She stepped inside, searching the room before finding the God Killer on the floor and leaning against the fountain on the opposite side of her, gazing out the open back doors to the lake that shimmered in the starlight as if the sky were on the earth. That wasn’t good, she needed his back to those doors if Clovis was to have any chance at sneaking in.

“Hey,” she rounded the fountain, standing off to one side and offered a genuine smile, brows furrowing in real concern. “I was just checking in before heading off to bed.”

The breath caught in her throat. She’d seen him at the funeral, of course, had seen him stand before the Roman leaders and their Praetor, and yet… he looked horrible. Horrific, even. Eyes red and purple from tears and sleep deprivation, shoulders hunched as he slumped against the rough looking stone supporting him, his injured leg stretched out— the extensive white bandages now saturated with faint red. She took a moment to glance around, the two pill bottles Bethany had given him nowhere to be found.

“Percy, where are your meds? Have you been taking them on time?” Then, after seeing the grimace as he turned his head slightly to look up at her, added knowingly, “Have you been taking them at all?”

He turned away again, closing his eyes for a moment as he drew in a deep breath through his nose and said, “You look tired. Go to bed, Pipes. I’m fine.”

When she made no move to leave, he parted his eyelids— so dark they seemed bruised. The sea green irises looked trapped between such darkness. Trapped, desperate, and almost pleading.

“If I look tired, then what in the Styx are you?” she teased. The corner of his lip twitched but nothing more. “Hey, Percy?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you on the floor because you sat down and can’t get up?”

A moment of silence as his eyes slid shut before flying open as if he were fighting to remain conscious. He winced but managed the slightest of nods, admitting, “I fell. Couldn’t… couldn’t…” 

His breathing hitched and then was curled in on himself, clutching his chest— no not his chest… lower, Piper realized with no small amount of horror. His core, he was wrapping his arms around his core which she had learned on the Argo to mean one thing. She tasted warm metallic liquid trickle through her parted lips a moment before she realized her nose was bleeding. By the time she wiped the trail away, it had stopped. Percy was still drawn into himself, but his breathing evened out and a single tear slid between those dark purple lids and down that tan cheek that had been marked bloodred with the handprint of his brother only yesterday.

“Percy?” she asked softly, keeping her distance but risking half a step closer. The son of Poseidon shook his head, though she realized it was not directed at her but rather the strange power he was struggling to contain in his current state. Finally, he managed to meet her eye. Her heart broke. Her essence sang. 

“I’m fine, I’m fi—”

Percy stilled. Piper cursed those God Killing powers that had somehow alerted their host.

Riptide was suddenly in his palm and despite him looking half corpse, half god and wrecked beyond belief, Percy’s eyes were clear as he straightened his posture against the fountain base.

“Who’s there?”

It was an effort not to slam her palm against her forehead as the demigod emerged in the doorway. But she contained herself, especially as he continued into the cabin, each slippered footfall silent enough it made her second guess threatening him as she had before. He barely looked threatening in his pajamas, slippers, bedhead, and permanently sleepy expression, but to Percy it was as if death itself prowled for him with the way his jaw slacked and hand went limp. Riptide clattered to the floor.

“Clovis?”

Percy’s eyes went wide with realization and horror, pulling his ruined body backwards across the wooden floor, splinters lodging into his palms and forearms. “No no no please Clovis no  _ please  _ don’t do this I can’t sleep I  _ can’t  _ go to sleep don’t make me go to sleep,” he was crying, twin streams cascading down his face, dripping from his granite hewn jawline. “Piper,” he begged, “don’t let him do this  _ please Pipes _ please please I can’t I can’t I… ” he was hyperventilating now, chest heaving as ragged anguished sounds escaped him. That voice in the back of her head blared in alarm,  _ if he’s this terrified to sleep, maybe inducing it isn’t the best idea… there’s got to be a better way… you’ll only traumatize him more… find a better way... _

_ This is for his own good _ , Piper thought, snipping at the other voice, before shouting aloud, “Clovis now!”

“NO!” Percy roared, the fountain behind him began to shake so violently she knew it would explode any second. As if he was broken from the shackles of that paralyzing fear and realized he could do something to stop this, Percy threw his hands out in front of him, the fingers contorting into claws.

But before she could feel that suffocating hold, before she could freeze at the sensation of her blood thrashing against it, she lurched forward. The son of Hypnos and daughter of Aphrodite flung out their own hands, gripping the God Killer’s shoulders from the front and behind, the command ripping through them as they chanted in unison,  _ “SLEEP!” _

Their combined voices were so powerful that the single word hit Percy with enough force to send him careening to the ground, dropping like a weight in an ocean, nearly slamming his head against the stone fountain base as he crumpled to the floor.

For a moment, nothing existed but the three. Piper and Clovis slowly brought their eyes up to meet. Piper nodded, Clovis nodded back. They were both panting, gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat, but their eyes— even Clovis’— were charged. 

“One down,” Piper said once she’d caught her breath, “seven to go.”

Clovis gestured to the door. “Ready when you are.”

Together, they launched into the night— the stars and moon their only witness.

* * *

She hadn’t left her spot on the Death God’s roof since sitting down atop its now frigid shingles after watching the gem laden shroud go up in smoke and ash.

Movement caught her eye— a girl with brown hair, a feather whipping in the air, and a boy with slippers stumbling as he tried to keep up with the girl’s rapid pace. They moved between shadows from the cabin nearest the lake towards another. From her place atop the onyx roof, the void of midnight sky, a funeral shroud above her, she watched in what must have been curiosity.

The girl and the boy tore over dirt and grass towards a cabin with gears fastened to the doors. A moment, or maybe an hour, or maybe a heartbeat later, the two emerged and headed for their next target, moving slower now. This cabin had an owl on its door. They snuck in through the far window and emerged much later than the previous two, at least she thought the time stretched on for longer. 

The two were not so much running now as they were stumbling into one another, their feet catching in the pits of dirt and furrows of grass more easily than before. They approached this cabin beneath her, now. Barely upright, they staggered for the double doors far below where she sat. She leaned over the ledge, that strange thing she supposed was curiosity fluttering. It was uncomfortable. She leaned back. 

The two disappeared inside only to exit the way they’d come, the girl spitting out a curse beneath her breath before taking a deep breath, grabbing the boy— whose eyes were barely open— by the arm, and dragging him to another cabin instead.

She wondered if they were looking for her. Maybe they could find her. Maybe they could tell her where she was— better yet, who she was. She had no clue as to either. If they were to ask, she would have no clue. Releasing a breath she had no idea she had been suppressing, her eyes fell to the center of the arc of cabins. The large expanse of grass was now much less crowded, most everyone having dispersed to their respected living accommodations for the night though some still lingered.

The massive stone circle in the center of the space was supposed to have flames. A boy sat on its edge, but that was wrong, it should not be that boy who sat beside the hearth. A woman of many colors— a mosaic of look and sound— was meant to sit there, a woman who feared not as fire licked at her back. The circle of stone was supposed to have flames. It was supposed to have flames. Where was the woman? Where were the flames? Where was her brother? Where was she?

She missed them. She missed them all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So this is a long one, I got excited and just rolled with the vibe. Crazy how much inspiration can come from drinking a cup of tea lmao. I created two new minor characters, hope you like them! I had a blast with this chapter and worked really hard on it :) Can’t wait to hear your thoughts <3
> 
> I know I haven't gotten a new chapter out of Carpe Lucem so if you're waiting on that I am so so sorry, I'll get to it eventually I'm just having endless amounts of fun with this one and keep having ideas :) sorry
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 
> 
> TW: Hazel will be displaying dissociative symptoms. This is something I deal with on a daily basis as a result of my anxiety and it actually helps for me to read and write about it, but I do know that for some people it can be triggering. Please take care of yourself and skip this scene if need be. I’ll put a warning right before the scene begins. How I’ve written her in this section is a representation of my own experiences with dissociation (specifically depersonalization/derealization), not meant to be taken as how everyone who endures such things experiences them.
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Bedroom door closing gently as her brothers exited, Lou Ellen let out a long sigh and finally lowered herself onto the edge of her bedding. The silk shifted under her though the mattress foam barely indented beneath her. She had become a bit thinner than she’d like after so many weeks of battle preparation, strengthening of the camp barrier, and worrying over her siblings. She brought a hand up to the bandage covering her left eye, hissing through her teeth at the ache that erupted upon making contact as the gauze and cotton padding pressed into the wound. During the fight against the Roman camp, one of her youngest sisters had snuck onto the battlefield against very specific orders and Lou Ellen had been too drained to do much else than jump in front of the little girl, shielding her with her own body and the weak pulse of a protection spell that had prevented the imperial gold dagger from completely gouging her eyeball, though it had been sliced beyond repair. 

On that dreaded day, she had gone to the infirmary only after ensuring the safety of her own cabin. Her heart still ached at the memory of stumbling across the dark field as the strange shadows cleared to find each and every one of her siblings, all of which had been in various stages of shock from whatever memories the darkness had coaxed from their minds. Crimson had been flowing thick and true between her eyelids and the pain excruciating— adrenaline keeping her above the dark spots in her uninjured eye— by the time she’d heard that Roman Praetor, who had traveled long and far with Nico, scream with a desperation that had Lou Ellen running faster to the medbay. She needed to get healed, then get back to help with whatever the cause of that soul shattering sound had been. She’d barely made it to the infirmary steps before collapsing beneath the impossibly sharp pain that struck her eye in unending lashes. She’d awoken with the bandage on her eye, an IV in her arm, and a child of Apollo, Joseph, by her side. His words were lost on her as she tried to recall them now, but his worried expression was etched in her memory clear and pure. 

The damage was done, and whenever the scar tissue fused together and she was able to remove the bandage without the fear of infection, her left eye would never see again. But her cabin was safe, her camp saved, and so she would not dwell in self pity. Besides, she could be partially blind and still do magic. It was all the motivation she’d needed to rise mere hours after being transported to her bed. And then, her eldest brothers, Koss and Elsin, had burst into the room with news of death on their tongues. And she had nearly lost all hope, nearly let herself drown into pity and guilt and mourning for the loss of a legend, a friend, an idol and inspiration to her and so many others. 

Her cabin had claimed no casualties, had burned none of their own during the mass funeral, and yet every body set aflame atop the pyre only hours ago had felt as if that blade were plunging into her eye over and over again. And yet, she had stood beside Leo for the funeral's entirety, in a constant state of motion as she applied and reapplied whorls of strength and endurance though draining to her own, though agony simmered beneath her bandaged eye and within the atriums of her heart. She’d watched the diamond embellished shroud turn to ash, the body beneath it possibly there because of her mother. Tears hadn’t seemed like enough. And yet, she had stayed with Leo, painting the symbols in her own blood when the herb and berry concocted paints ran out. And Leo, he had _burned_. Burned with focus, with determination, as if using his very spirit as the fuel. 

When at last the funeral had concluded and the son of Hephaestus had collapsed, his siblings who were immune to the searing forge of his flesh had carried him away as Koss and Elsin had rushed for her. She had let them take her weight, draping her weary arms across their necks, though she’d asked them to follow the children of forges and gears, needing to remove the spells dripping across that burning skin so that he might rest.

Lou Ellen slowly reached down to unlace her shoes before hauling her tired legs up onto the bed, surrendering herself fully to the mercy of the silk sheets and soft mattress. She grit her teeth from pulling herself across the bed as the slice in her palm was disturbed. She closed her healthy eye, the injured announcing it did the same by the sharp sting beneath the bandage. Having just now returned from the Hephaestus cabin with the help of her brothers, though smelling of ash and sweat and blood from the recent mass funeral, she needed to sleep. Tomorrow would be full of forced diplomacy as the Romans departed— news of Percy and Larry’s standoff had been brought to her via Leo’s siblings while she’d worked on removing the whorls from him— as well as the uncomfortable discussion— more interrogation, most likely— between her and the other head counselors once Percy and the Seven informed them of her mother's possible connection with death— and perhaps, murder— of Nico. She shifted, the discomfort not solely from her eye or nearly healed slit palm. 

Try as she might to set her mind adrift into unconsciousness, all she could see was Percy holding out that slab of flesh with one hand, a dead broken-necked eagle in the other, and the forbidden glowing marks that burned her vision. 

_Lou Ellen_

_Did your mother do this?_

_Is this her work?_

Percy’s eyes had been desperate, voice edged with something truly lethal. When the God Killer had burst out of her room, the others following, Lou Ellen had hurried to her window in time to see Percy tear across the grass, snapping his camp necklace, releasing the eagle and chunk of whorl filled flesh, and taking step after step into the lake. When every drop of water that had been in the lake exploded, hovering high above Percy’s head— Percy, who had fallen to his knees and roared to the water and sky above— Lou Ellen had slid to the floor, broken sobs wracking her frame until Koss and Elsin found her, lowering themselves beside her and embraced their weeping sister without asking questions, without knowing why she cried with anger and pain.

The memory jarred her so violently, sharper than the pain in her injured eye, that her healthy one flew open as she jolted into a sitting position. Like a viper, her head lashed to the far wall of her bedroom, eye fixating on the shadowbox displayed proudly on its surface. She needed answers. She owed them to Percy, to Will, to that Roman Praetor whose scream still rattled in her eardrums, and to herself. Lou Ellen slid her legs over the edge and rose to her feet, wobbling slightly at the rushing of blood in her head. A hand lunged out to the bedside table, knocking over a glass jar of flowers her younger siblings had gathered for her in the process. It shattered loudly upon colliding with the wooden floor. She winced at the sound, deepening at the sting from her injured eyelid squeezing shut, but then she righted her spine and moved across her room.

Her fingertips barely grazed the glass front when her door flew open, the threshold filling with Koss and Elsin whose lilac eyes appeared over his brother’s shoulder. Lou Ellen quickly backed away from the display case, hand flying away as if burned and smiled innocently. 

“We heard a crash, are you…” Koss’ words faded off as he saw what it was she had been about to touch. His broad shoulders, tensed and prepared to defend his sister against any threat, melted. Those irises— a deeper purple hue than Elsin’s— went soft with curiosity.

With similar heights and builds of strong frames, fair skin, light brown hair, they were often mistaken as twins. The two brothers had been raised together, of the same father— a lovely man and apothecary from the Netherlands that had traveled far to bring his sons to Camp Half Blood once Koss, the elder of the two by mere months, had reached the age of ten, having wanted the boys to know their father. A rarity in the world of demigods, but Lou Ellen would be forever jealous and indebted by the man who had passed not three years ago who had taught her brothers such kindness and compassion. And an eye for observation and quick learning that had served them well to becoming equally skilled in magic, rivaled only by Lou Ellen herself. 

Those traits had saved her life many a time on quests and in battle, but right now, they were a nuisance.

“Everything’s fine, just stretching my legs a bit.” They watched with keen eyes, wholly unconvinced as she dramatically stretched one leg after the other. 

“Right,” Elsin smirked as he drawled the word to show how futile her attempt was. The brothers entered the room, Elsin closing the heavy door behind him with gentle grace. Koss cleared his throat, nodding to the shadowbox pointedly.

“Right,” he said, echoing his brother. “So what’s all this about? You should be in bed resting.”

Crossing the room, he sat onto the bed’s edge, the dark satin making his pale skin appear as if glowing. She noticed he had placed himself so that if she sat, he would be positioned at the side of her good eye. He patted the space beside him. Defeated, she let out a huff and joined him, Elsin pulling over the desk chair and spinning it around to drape his forearms over the back and rest his head on top.

“Do you need us to fetch Joseph or Will?” Koss’ accent caught on the words, made thicker by the exhaustion obviously clinging to them both. The weeks and past few days had been rough for them all. Koss, particularly, had been infatuated with Nico; had spent years admiring the demigods’ bravery, determination, and talent from afar, though always too shy to go and talk to him no matter how many times Elsin and Lou Ellen teased and urged. And now, he never would. 

Although they were here to comfort her, Lou Ellen placed a hand on Koss’ back, the muscles tense despite his seemingly relaxed composure. Knowing him, taking care of her was part of how he was coping with the loss of someone he’d never gotten to truly know. Elsin dissected the gesture and gave her a knowing nod to confirm her suspicions once Koss averted his eyes. To help distract her brother from his sorrow, she cleared her throat.

“No, it’s not my eye that’s bothering me.” Elsin gave a pointed look to her palm to which she responded, “Nor my hand.”

Koss reached behind him for the hand at his back and took it into his. Those hands were strong yet lacked the callouses and scarring on her own; for despite his muscles and height, he favored leather bound books that predated some minor gods to combat training, preferring to do strength workouts on his own in the privacy of his bedroom turned miniature gym. He held her hand as if an anchor and narrowed his eyes in contemplation.

“What are you hiding from us, sister?” She parted her lips but he interjected, “Before you try to lie again, if you deem it something best kept secret, don’t feel pressured to reveal it. Just… just please no lies.”

Lou Ellen had found her way to Camp Half Blood— dumped there, more like, by her father, the master gardener who had better things to do than care for a child— when she was six years old. She had been quiet, devoting herself fully to the wondrous art of war and magic, keeping to herself and speaking only when spoken to. Until the Visser brothers had arrived. The three had been inseparable ever since. They had more or less raised her, helping her break out of her shell and come into her own. They never looked down at her for being two years younger, and never fostered jealousy or malice when she rose above them in skill and poise. And it was they who had cheered the loudest when she was announced as Head Councilor last year. So, despite wanting desperately to keep the burden on her shoulders alone, she let out a breath and told them everything. About Percy and the others coming into her room moments before Percy sent the lake aerial, about the evidence he had brought her, about the Phylogryphs she’d interpreted, and about what she planned to do.

When she finished and had taken a few sips from a glass of water at her bedside, the Visser brothers were silent. Beside her, Koss was practically trembling with barely contained rage. It was Elsin who spoke first with a determined nod. “We will go with you.” 

He made to rise, removing his arms from the back of the chair, only to still at Koss’ raised hand. The elder brother met Lou Ellen’s eye, gaze flicking to the bandaged one and, though she could see the vengeance giving way to concern on his face, he dipped his head. “She wishes to do this on her own.”

Relief settled into her bones as the two brothers nodded to one another in agreement before turning to their sister. Lou Ellen withdrew her hand from Koss’ and pushed onto her feet, crossing the room once more, careful of the glass on the floor as she neared the shadowbox. Sheets rustled and wood on wood squealed as the two rushed forward to help. 

They reached up and carefully, lovingly almost, to remove the massive case of wood and glass from the wall before setting it onto the ground. Stepping back, they turned around and closed their eyes to allow Lou Ellen to lean down and place a pricked and bleeding fingertip into a very specific spot on the wood siding— its location known only to her. The glass cover disappeared without a single sound. 

Elsin wiped his hands on his pants to remove any grime, and then flicked his attention to Koss who nodded the okay and they moved forward, reaching down to remove the contents so carefully held within using the most delicate of touch.

Silently, as if in a trance of perfect synchronicity, they guided each sleeve onto Lou Ellen’s arms and as Elsin adjusted the front drapings, Koss ducked under her raised arm behind her to spread out each layer of the back so that it lay onto the floor in perfectly smoothed layers.

The robe was heavy on her shoulders, pulling them back into a regal posture. The boning in the corseted waist was firm yet breathable, supporting her spine and chest. Lou Ellen closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, allowing only the faintest of smiles to grace her lip despite the screams of utter joy bounding within her at the nostalgia of it all. 

Parting her the lids on her one good eye, she looked down at herself, unable to keep her hands from sliding across the deep emerald satin that clung to her lithe frame with a precision that would make a mortal seamstress weep in awe. Her fingers felt along the ridges of silver thread embossing as if in remembrance of the many hours spent sketching out the exact pattern of whorls.

Lifting her gaze, she looked in the mirror hung on the wall and was filled with the same loss of breath and speech as the day her mother’s most prized artisan first placed it onto her. Though years had passed since its creation, the robe still fit perfectly having been charmed to grow as she did. 

Lou Ellen cleared her throat yet her voice was a bit hoarse as she said, “I need you both to take care of the cabin, lead in my place, and cover for me until I return. Tell Annabeth if you must, but no one else, not even Chiron.” 

Where a moment before Elsin’s features had been full of fear and Koss’ that of rage and pain, those emotions were now diluted, giving way to wonder and pride. But also intense longing filled those amethyst and lilac eyes.

Robes were an intimate thing for all children of Hecate. Each one custom and uniquely personalized with layers in one's favorite color and adornments of silver or gold thread to emulate their mother's naturally whorled skin. Koss’ was a rich amethyst purple that matched his eyes perfectly, Elsin’s that of bronze in honor of his beloved father who adored the color. It was a massive honor, the dream of every Hecate born and a right of passage in the cabin to, at the age of thirteen, spend three months in the Spire— one month with each of the three forms. Hecate was often called the Three Faced Goddess, but it wasn’t merely faces. Each was it’s own form with its own appearance, it’s own personalities and thoughts. At the end of the three months of grueling training with the most experienced minor gods and Hecate herself, if you had proven yourself, a robe was created and bestowed. A symbol of accomplishment and of knowledge to be worn with pride and received with respect from all others on Olympus. Now seventeen, Lou Ellen had not visited the Spire, or her mother, since the completion of her three months and earning of her robe.

The robes were never worn at Camp Half Blood, or even in the mortal lands, though there was a small ceremony they did privately in the cabin where the returned campers would receive a display case for their robe crafted from the tree bark in the woods surrounding camp. If ever they were to return to the sanctum, or step foot on Olympus, they had to wear their robes.

It felt wrong to be wearing it now, but there was one particular function of the robes that was known to no one but the children of Hecate. 

Her brothers nodded at the request and held their breaths as she partially rolled back the left sleeve to reveal a line of six stones no bigger than small buttons and sewn into the fabric just the same. Lou Ellen flicked her single eye to her brothers, both of which bowed their heads— Elsin throwing a wink. She smiled faintly then closed her eye, felt the burn of words both familiar and long ago learned on her lips. When she opened her eyes, the stone she’d used turned black, glowing no more, and she lifted her emerald gaze.

Lou Ellen was home.

* * *

The train of her robe behind her, sliding across the stone stairs, could be described as nothing short of ethereal as Lou Ellen ascended the Spine. She passed minor gods and several campers in their orange shirts who all gazed at her with admiration and dipped their heads in respect. Only in this Spire encrusted in mosaics could a heavily bandaged left eye be the second thing noticed, or not even noticed at all due to the sight of mastery and poise in the form of a robe.

Lou Ellen held her head higher than she had in months as she rose higher and higher, relishing in the colored lights dancing upon her fabric covered arms. She yearned for her left eye’s sight to behold the wonder of morning light pouring into the sanctum, bathing the spiral staircase in every array of color imaginable. She couldn’t help but pause for a moment, leaning against the railing to take it all in. She’d always cherished the mosaic panes— nothing in the mortal lands could compare. Because they weren’t panes of colored glass, but actual gemstone. Refined gemstone because of the ability to be sturdy and long lasting without the need of being enchanted. A Spire encased in a mosaic of gemstone. No matter what her mother might have done, this place would always— perhaps to her detriment— be a weak spot for her. It would forever hold a place in the deepest chasms of her heart.

With a deep breath, she wiped at the tears that had unwillingly welled in her eye, and continued up, up, up. When at last she reached the very top, panting slightly though her muscles remembered the daunting climb she’d once made everyday for three months, she braced herself with another deep breath and pushed into the double doors.

A centaur, of whom she did not recognize, jumped at the sound from his place beside the singular worktable in the very center of the room. And there, behind the table, holding a glass decanter of aquamarine liquid up to the light of the ceiling chandelier, was her mother. Lou Ellen lost all capacity to speak for a heartbeat, then another, at the sight of Hecate’s Morning form and it struck her how despite everything, she missed her mother very very much. So deep in contemplation at the contents of her hand, the goddess did not notice her daughter's presence. Only when she removed her gaze from the substance and lowered her hand to pass it to the centaur did she freeze, did she notice.

“Lou Ellen! Goodness me, I did not know you were paying a visit today, what a lovely surprise!” The goddess turned to the centaur, jerking her beautiful chin to the demigod with a smile that beamed with pride. “This is my daughter, Lou Ellen Blackstone. It has been many years since I last saw her, though I have heard she has done truly remarkable things.”

The centaur’s attention seemed mostly on the decanter now in his hands, but he lifted his multicolored eyes to her. Lou Ellen bowed awkwardly and said good morning to which he said nothing, only returned the bow with a pained and almost desperate expression. Strange. Before she could question it or ask if he was alright, Hecate whisked around the side of the worktable and crossed the distance between them to wrap her daughter in a tight embrace that smelled faintly of rosewater and belladonna petals. 

“Oh how I’ve missed you, my child.” She pulled away, holding her on both shoulders to get a better look at the bandage covering the left side of her face with a flash of concern. “Darling , whatever happened to your beautiful face? And my how thin you have become. Are you being worked too hard? If you would like me to have a talking to with Chiron just say the word.” 

“Um, no I’m fine but I really need to talk to you,” Lou Ellen managed to get out. It was harder than she’d ever imagined to stay focused with her mother’s hands on her shoulders and undivided attention; motherly concern and pride were pure and clear on the goddesses' features. All things she’d taken for granted during her three months, all things she hadn’t realized she’d been aching for— not fully whole without all these years since. It made the reason for her visit feel akin to when that golden blade had driven towards her eye.

“It must be very important indeed for you to visit and oh look at your robe,” Hecate gasped, walking a circle to see all angles, despite her own robe a masterpiece when compared to Lou Ellen’s, “it’s absolutely stunning now that you’ve grown a bit taller. Emerald was definitely the perfect selection. My goodness, you look as regal as the queen, though I know you are just as cunning,” she added with a wink.

Though Lou Ellen could stand there star struck for hours listening to her mother gush about her beauty and brilliance, the demigod forced the harsh reality to set in and cleared her throat. “Thank you, I really must speak with you about something.”

Hecate’s smile didn’t falter a single millimetre, as if she were just as transfixed by the sound of her daughter's voice and the warmth of her presence. The look of love made Lou Ellen’s heart ache, even more so when the goddess said with a nod, “You look exhausted and absolutely famished, why don’t we have tea and sandwiches in your favorite room. Then you can tell me what manner of things brought you all this way to discuss.”

Before Lou Ellen could so much as nod, the orange whorls on her mother’s skin began to throb, pulsing with a faint light. Knowing what that signaled and recognizing the words that echoed through the room, she closed her eyes to keep the flash from blinding her. When her good eye opened, they were in a different room, an entirely different floor of the spire. She knew it well— the high ceiling with plants of all variations hanging from the ceiling, colored light filtering in and kissing each leaf and petal. She knew the small table at its center and the two chairs beside it, all made of iron and painted white. The gardens, one of many in the Spire— tended to by Demeter every season, the iron furniture a gift from Hephaestus— and yet this one was Lou Ellen’s favorite. She didn’t know why, but during her three months on the days when her lessons were the most difficult, or when she could not master a spell as quickly as usual, she always found herself wandering into this room. The first time she’d ever been inside, the minor god— one of Demeter’s who had been a gift to Hecate— who oversaw it had scolded her, yelling at her to get out. She’d fled to the darkest corner of the lowest level in the sanctum and it had been her mother, the Night form, who had found her. 

Night had listened to her tumbling words, taken her by the hand and helped her rise. She had shown the young demigod how to throw her shoulders back, lift her chin, wipe her tears and climb the stairs back up to that minor god. Taught her how to sit down with him and have a conversation using words to wield her feelings rather than let them wield her. It was then that the minor god apologized and explained she had startled him and that the plants this room housed were the most dangerous in the entire sanctum, that was why he had scolded her; for fear she might harm herself. And so, Night had taught her another useful skill, not of magic or potion, but of negotiation. Lou Ellen had taken a day to think, then gone back up to that minor god and asked if he could teach her about these dangerous plants, and in exchange, she would keep him company whenever not in lessons— for she had noticed he was lonely, confined to that room and few others during the months he was to look over the room. He had accepted with a firm handshake and a warm smile, and it was from this knowledge of toxic berries and leaves and petals that had helped earn her the reputation of mastery and intelligence she now had.

She looked around, smiling at the memories of time spent within these walls discussing poetry and philosophy and spells and gardening, but did not see her companion. Hecate noticed and explained, “You showed me how alone and distressed he was from being kept here like a… like a servant, so once your three months were over and you left, I freed him of his duties. Ever since, I come in here every once in a while and think that maybe you would have been proud of me.”

Lou Ellen looked at her mother, really looked. Baffled, and without words for what felt like the hundredth time. “You what?”

“I let him go. It was not right to force him into isolation when he obviously yearned for freedom. Now, a small group of Demeter’s best rotate on a voluntary basis to overlook each of the gardens.”

When Lou Ellen could do nothing but stare again in utter disbelief, Hecate let out a chime of delighted laughter and took a seat, gesturing to the other. The moment she sat down, two plates and cups of steaming tea appeared on the table before her. With a smile, Hecate said, “Now then, what is it you wished to discuss?”

Right. Right, she had come here to ask, had come here for answers. Koss, Will, Percy, Hazel, … she chanted their names in her head to remind herself, to ground herself. She owed them answers, owed herself answers. She didn’t reach for the tea or the sandwich despite how her stomach growled. Instead she pinned her eyes on the goddess across from her and steeled her nerves before asking, “Did you help Zeus?”

“Oh honey, yes of course,” Hecate said with a smile, reaching for her tea. “He is going to keep you all safe.”

Lou Ellen grasped the table, it’s iron edge pressing into the palm she’d sliced open to paint crimson whorls on Leo’s skin to keep the funeral pyre alive. “No. No you didn’t, y-you didn’t please don’t say it’s true, _please_.”

Hecate lowered the cup from her lips, “You don’t look so well, why don’t you have something to eat?” 

Lou Ellen muttered over and over, chanting like a prayer as she rocked slightly back and forth wanting to deny it, wanting it not to be true because if it is, if it is, then… then… 

Alarmed, Hecate returned her teacup to the dish and scooted her chair around the table. Now beside her, she placed a hand on her back, rubbing in slow circles. The whorls on her hand intensified their glow slightly as they warmed to soothe the tension in her daughter’s muscles. 

“What is it?” She asked, voice as warm and gentle as the hand on her back, “What’s wrong my child?”

“It’s true,” Lou Ellen’s words were nothing more than a strangled whisper.

“What was that? I cannot hear you.”

“You killed Nico!”

Hecate’s chair moved back an inch at the hurt and betrayal in her daughter's bandaged face.

“What? No, no I did not harm the boy. The God King asked for a beast to aid you all in battle. It was he who controlled my creation.”

“Your creation— do you hear yourself speaking?!” Lou Ellen erupted, jolting from the chair with such force the iron clattered to the ground. “You abetted in a murder, mother! You-you’ve met him, his sister, Hazel, too and you… you _killed_ him!”

“I did it to protect you, and to save the boy from himself. I did not kill him. He sought to wield that with which would have destroyed you all, himself included.” She parted her lips, reaching forward, but Lou Ellen jerked back with a half-sob, her left shoulder striking a potted plant she could not see with the bandaged left eye. It came crashing from its pedestal.

“N-no don’t touch me!”

Hecate pulled her hand back as though burned and there were tears in the goddesses mortified eyes. Lou Ellen closed her own for a moment before forcing herself to meet her mothers.

“I feel unsafe. Please, I wish to speak with Night.” Her mother’s whorls began to glow, indicating a form shift being triggered. A safeguard. The words that tingled on Lou Ellen’s lips laced with magic were a fail-safe Hecate had put in place to protect her children. Always to protect her children.

“Lou Ellen, I-I am sorry,” the goddess stammered, “I did not mean to hurt you, y-you know that right? You know that I love you? That I— that I love you more t-than anything?”

She was resisting the shift, trying to stay present. She stumbled forward with a desperation that made Lou Ellen’s soul ache enough that she had to turn away. She kept her back to Hecate as tears streamed down her cheeks and her breaths hitched and she did not turn even as her mother’s broken sobs and pleading began to morph, began to cease.

She had to get out, had to get out of this horrible place. She wanted nothing, _nothing_ to do with her mother, not in any form regardless of whether or not they were aware of what the Morning form had done. Before the Night’s shift could fully take hold, Lou Ellen clamped her eyes shut, ignoring the pain as her injured one cried out. Her lips felt as though aflame from the force with which she chanted the archaic words. The glowing stitched whorls of her robe that scorched her closed lids and her mother’s pleading died out at the same time, leaving nothing but silence and blotched vision through her one eye. Her knees gave out but before she could come crashing down, strong arms caught her, guiding her to the floor. 

Koss’ familiar scent wrapped around her as he embraced her trembling body, holding her head close to his chest, allowing her racing heart to sync with the steady rhythm of his own. Elsin was close by, she sensed his presence through instinct alone and melted at his touch as he ran one gentle hand up and down her back, the other pushing her hair from her burning, sweat coated forehead and delicately pulled strands from where they’d gotten trapped within the folds of her bandages.

The three sat like that for what could have been hours or days, in a heap on the floor with nothing but the sound of Lou Ellen’s weeping to fill the silence.

* * *

She was gaining strength with each passing day as the shackles began to wear thin, unable to contain her infernal essence forever. She knew she just had to be patient. Patience was all she knew all she had alone in this unforgotten cell beneath the holy land of the gods. 

Suddenly, Hestia gasped. The sound echoed against the barren walls covered in nothing but dust and cobwebs. Because, for the first time since awakening in the hellhole, Hestia felt a smile dance upon her lip at the familiar sensation— a warmth in the very marrow of her bones and the taste of ash and flame curling in her mouth. She released a sigh, her breath came out in a puff of flame. Her smile grew. Not a feral, tooth bearing grin like she so often remembered seeing her brothers and the other gods do, but a smile of warmth, of relief, of greeting. Her flames had not abandoned her. 

She was not alone. 

She released a cry of pure joy in a language long forgotten along with more amber breath— still faint from the remaining energy of the shackles, but warm and comforting all the same. The sound echoed within her three walls, between the bars of her cell door, down the hall and back— carrying with it another sound. 

Hestia became one with the ice at her limbs and froze at the unmistakable clop of hooves. She nearly smiled again, the silent centaur had been bringing her nectar and ambrosia twice a day, even lingering a bit longer as if they were both just as in need of company— she had spent many a day with mute, deaf, and blind, and knew they yearned for companionship and warmth just as much as any other, and for that were no different from any other living being. Her smile fell when he came into view, nearing the metal bars. Her smile fell because while he looked to her with sorrow as always, the usual expression of peace and respect was nowhere to be found. Just sorrow, and regret. And anguish. 

His eyes seemed to plead with the goddess and when she could finally bring herself to break that gaze, Hestia brought her eyes to rest on the object held between the centaurs hands— hands that were visibly shaking. She didn't know what it was, but she opened her lips to beg anyway, to tell him she was nearly free and that she could help him escape too— she had freed many a slave, offered the shelter of her hearth and the warmth of her heart. It was as if he could sense her words before voicing a single one because he shook his head mournfully. The motion set his face aglow in the faint sliver of moonlight, illuminating a trail of tears cascading from his brown eyes. On hands and knees— goddess of the hearth, sister of the God King— Hestia lowered her head. One enslaved bowing to another. 

"Please. Please let me free. Whatever he has done to you, whatever he has promised or threatened, I can protect you. I can save you. But only if you save me." 

His tears flew faster, falling to the stone ground like drops of silver blood as he shook his head again. Her power too dampened, too weak, the goddess could do nothing but watch, but plead _no no no no_ like a prayer as the centaur pulled the cork from the glass decanter and poured the aquamarine liquid onto the ground beneath his feet. When it collided with his recently shed anguish, those crystal tears turned to molecules of ice. And then it was spreading, seeping, crawling across the stone towards the bars of her cell, crawling towards her. 

The bars groaned as the liquid moved beneath the lowest column and frost shot up each beam. It did not stop, did not balk at her weak breaths of flame as she cried out, lashing against the chains that held her to the center of the floor. And Hestia screamed, she shrieked, causing the frozen metal bars of her cell to split open with fissures and shatter completely at the centaurs feet. She shrieked, she _wailed_ as the liquid at last found her knees. She shrieked, she _howled_ as frost shot up her just as it had with the now decimated door of her cell. She shrieked as her knees, as her legs, as her feet and torso, as her arms and fingers, as her chest and shoulders, as her neck turned to ice. She did not stop, did not yield her voice, her breath, her rage, until the violatingly frigid touch reached her jaw, her tongue, her face. Only then— mouth frozen open in an eternal scream, face cemented in eternal anguish— was Hestia of the Hearth silenced. Only then. 

Only then.

* * *

_{TW: dissociation}_

Nothing felt real after Nico’s spirit passed through her. Not her surroundings, not her emotions, not her own body. Nothing.

She tried to hide it but didn’t have the capacity to know if she was convincing to the others or not. She’d be walking to breakfast, her friends waving to her, her heart full and smile genuine, and then without warning she’d go completely numb. The smile would feel like a phenomena of muscle memory rather than a sign of joy.

It had terrified her at first— the tingling static-like sensation that overtook her body and the numbness that came with it— but not anymore. Not when she was getting used to it, this new way of existing, as the days passed. Days that no longer had meaning. Days that were empty and cold, that spanned lifetimes and seconds, that she watched from a distance far, far, far above her body.

She was just going through the motions, imitating a life she was no longer a part of through careful observation of her surroundings. But the smiles she forced were hollow, the laughs too similar to those around her to be considered genuine. Her movements felt disjointed, robotic, and her head was light, too light. 

There was such an emptiness to her head. A hollowness in her. She’d even caught herself more than once placing two fingers over her jugular, her wrist, or a hand over her heart to see if it was even beating. To see if she was even real.

She could no longer recognize herself in mirrors when she passed by her own reflection, she felt no connection to the glassy brown eyes that stared back. Is that what she looked like? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t feel possible, didn’t feel real. But then again, nothing did.

Sometimes the feeling, or lack thereof, wasn’t so prevalent and she could feel herself come back down and settle into her skin for a while. But others, it would hit her with such a disarming force that she would gaze into nothing, numb beyond comprehension, drowning and floating all at once in her own disconnected mind. During those times, all she could do was wait for it to pass. Sleep found her easily, and she drifted off each night soundly, awoke just the same. Climbed into bed at night with limbs that weren’t her own, rose from bed in the morning just the same.

Sometimes she felt weightless, like if a strong wind were to hit her she might drift away. Some days— hours? minutes? years?— she couldn’t see faces. When she looked up at Frank, his features were hazy as if a mask of mist. Then the others too. They started looking like ghosts. And she started feeling like one. Her name was the first thing to detach, to the point she couldn’t remember it anymore, not unless she cared enough to claw her way through her mind tooth and nail, pulling it out with bloodied fingertips. But her name was attached to things, things she didn’t wish to dreg back up with it. She’d stopped caring long ago. She couldn’t remember her own name, but it didn’t matter. Why should something that didn’t really exist even have a name? It seemed wrong— like a waste of creativity. 

She had felt like this once before— disconnected, detached from reality, drifting as if a husk— a ghost. In the Fields of Asphodel. But at least there, the surroundings had reflected her dissonance, unlike here where reality and normalcy taunted her, just out of reach. As if the memory tugged at her muscles, she had taken to walking just as when she’d aimlessly wandered the endless Fields of the Underworld. Someone had brought her back, someone had pulled her from that place of nothingness and phantom presence. A weak, crying voice that had fallen deep into the pits of her subconscious told her that whoever it was, whoever had saved her from that place that felt so much like this, was gone. No one was coming to save her. 

And so, she walked. She walked in the woods beyond that rippling invisible border that singed the hair on her arms when she crossed it’s border. Some days, it was the only thing she’d feel from dawn to dusk. The constant gentle sounds of the tree tops and the melancholy birds soothed some part of her, made her feel as though their leafed and melodious canopy could keep her from drifting away. She was on one such venture when Frank came to get her.

Chiron had called for them all, saying it was urgent and that Hazel needed to be present. Frank hadn’t had the time to tell Chiron he didn’t think Hazel had been ‘present’ since Nico’s spirit passed through her. Though sore from having shifted so much in the past two days, yet well rested from the strange slumber he was certain he’d been forced into, he’d only nodded at the iris message and sought out to find her. Find her, he did, sitting within a circle of gemstones, all of them shattered or split in half. Shards of every color and hue imaginable scattered the forest floor. 

Frank approached her slowly but made sure to step on the crunchy leaves, not wanting to startle her. He’d made himself get used to approaching her slowly and non threateningly so she would have time to process his presence. He had no idea what was going on inside of her mind, and though he ached to help, his instincts told him what she needed most was space. As he continued towards her, crunching the leaves beneath his boots, she startled slightly but returned her gaze to the pile of riches she had coaxed from the earth.

“Chiron needs us, he said it’s urgent,” Frank said softly. “The rest of the Seven are heading to his office now.” Hazel didn’t move. “Hazel? Hey, are you with me?”

He reached out, extending a hand. She turned to him slowly, so slowly and took it. He released her hand as if burned. Because her palm was wet and sharp. He grabbed for it and gently, so so gently, turned it around to inspect. Her hands had small cuts and scrapes from holding the shards, shallow but enough to seep crimson as if sap from the trees around them.  
  
“Hazel, you’re bleeding.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down at them as if seeing the damage for the first time. She pressed a finger into one palm, something changing in the haze of her eye as she did, almost as if it brought her clarity. Frank reached down and helped her to rise before ripping a piece of his shirt into two rough strips and wrapping her hands. He tried to meet her gaze, but it had gone foggy once again. It was difficult not to be disheartened and the heavy weight of concern was becoming a familiar burden on his chest. He’d grown accustomed to the difficulty breathing.

“Come on,” he tried for an encouraging smile, “let's get to the meeting. We can grab some ambrosia from the infirmary on our way to the Big House.”

Hazel brought her eyes up to Frank’s. She looked away. She nodded. And together, they left the shards of gemstone behind. Sunlight streaming through the dense trees as they headed back, Frank tried not to think of how similar those shards had looked to the mosaic panes in the bedroom doors of the Hecate Cabin. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!!! Been a few weeks… sorry about that. College and engineering exams have kept me from having any time to write, but I finally managed to get this update done! It’s kind of long to make up for the lack of content these past few weeks. Anywho, I cannot wait for you to see what I’ve got in store, this story is far from over ;)
> 
> TW: hella angst. hella.   
> Copious mentions of blood and ichor

The cobbled streets of Olympus are flooded with ichor. His path away from the city, silent with death, is a trail of golden lifeblood from beneath his sopping shoes. Each step is a splash that echoes in his wake.

He makes his way to the palace entrance. 

Though his grip is solid and unbreakable around his concocted weapon, his other hand slides off the handles of the palace doors once, twice from the glittering ichor— that so poetically matches the intricate handles of pure gold— making his palm slick. He himself is drenched in the immortal plasma— it coats him head to toe, seeps through his clothes and drips from his nose, his fingertips in red crimson and gold ichor. As if he has been dipped in liquid marbled granite. 

He makes purchase on the handle. 

He is searching for someone. They were not in the city, so the palace… they must be in the palace. He’s searched everywhere else in the land among the clouds— thoroughly enjoying the hunt. Slowly, he pushes into one of the double doors. He is in no rush. There is a smile on his face. He feels alive, he feels whole. He is in control of his powers, of his mind, of his existence. He has never felt peace before, but he thinks it would feel a lot like this.

A sword of his own creation— the blade made of the ichor he spilled and the holy water of the ornate and now decimated fountains from the city at his back— rests blissfully in his right hand. Peace. Yes, this is peace. The weapon is a perfect equilibrium of his three strengths— water, blood, battle. It takes great focus, great control and mastery to wield. It is perfectly balanced. With it in his palm,  _ he  _ is perfectly balanced. 

There is no pain in his mind or core, no writhing thing, no lashing within the cage of his ribs. He is free. 

Immortal bodies rush into the halls as he closes the door behind him. He recognizes them all. They form a blockade in front of the entrance to the Hall of the Gods— the throne and council room.

With every swing of his blade, every lash of his power, he liberates himself. He is free.

And so, he keeps killing

And killing

And killing

* * *

Jason had awoken to Piper telling him about what she had done— what she’d threatened Clovis into helping her do to their friends. Eyes wide, he’d barely had a chance to absorb her rushed flurry of words, or to understand the unnervingly energized way she looked at him, how she’d looked almost as if she were faintly glowing, but an iris message interjected her excitement as it burst to life in the center of the cabin beneath the live weather painted dome.

Piper’s back went straight and she rose from where she’d been kneeling against the side of his mattress. The clouds ceased their clapping thunder as he jerked himself out of bed and wiped the sleep from his eye as he hurried over. His pulse was racing at the chaos of Piper waking him up and now Chiron who appeared in the mist. 

The centaur’s features were drawn and weary though his voice sharpened with that of urgency. Jason could feel Piper come up to flank his left as Chiron told them to gather Leo and Percy— both of whom he’d been unable to contact— and meet him at the big house immediately. Annabeth was apparently on her way and Frank was gathering Hazel. With that and no more, the mist dissipated, leaving the floor slick and gleaming, a reflection of the clouds on the dome above that began to crackle once more with strobes of lightning.

Jason stood there, mesmerized by the reflection and how it felt like he was trapped between relentless storms from above and below. He heard more than saw Piper part her lips and take a large breath— something he’d learned meant she was about to say a lot of things and very quickly. A single hand half raised was enough to prevent it.

“Just, give me a minute,” he pleaded. Piper closed her mouth though he could practically feel the energy radiating from her. Focusing on calming his heart and clearing his thoughts, he looked down at the reflection, up at the dome, then to his girlfriend— storms in them all. She somehow looked… stronger. The revelation did nothing to calm his nerves. After taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair, he nodded with a smile that even he could feel was weak. Piper beamed at him. 

“I’ll go get Percy, you can get Leo,” she said, moving to a far wall where she’d discarded her dagger and hair ties. “Rendezvous at the Big House.”

She gathered her items, fastened her hair, and made to leave but Jason cleared his throat. “No, I’ll get Percy.”

Nearly to the door, Piper turned on her heel and opened her mouth to object. He gave her a look. “Do you remember on the Argo the way he looked at you when you tried to charmspeak him and he said never to do that again? Well you did it again, Piper.” She made to interject, he cut her off with a gentler voice, “I don’t disagree with you, he needed to sleep— they all did— and I would’ve helped if you’d asked… I just… I don’t think he’ll be very happy. And even though I hate to admit it, he’s in a very… fragile state right now. One that none of us truly understand.”

“Okay,” Piper said, albeit a bit deflated. Then her features brightened and she crossed the distance to give him a gentle kiss. When they pulled away, she brought her forehead to his and whispered, “You’re right, please be careful. I’ll see you soon with a Leo in tow.”

Despite everything, laughter rumbled echoing in his chest. They held each other for a moment more, savoring each second before breaking apart at last. Jason held the door open for her and the daughter of Aphrodite slipped through into the crisp morning air. It felt heavy, as if a mournful darkness were hanging over Camp and had seeped in through the barrier in wake of the funeral. Jason felt his chest constrict, a lump rise in his throat. Piper lifted her arms above her head to stretch, breathing in deeply. Then, with a wave over her shoulder and one last smile of goodbye, she parted right to the Hephaestus Cabin. 

Jason lowered his own hand from the halfhearted wave and stood on the last step of his own, watching her cross the space and wondering at why she stayed on the edge of the still grieving campers milling about, almost as if she were observing them. Shaking his head, Jason adjusted the bandage covering his eagle tattoo with a grimace and stepped off towards the Poseidon Cabin— unsure of whether he would be met with his best friend, the legendary demigod and hero of Olympus, or the God Killer.

* * *

Glorious, magnificent,  _ righteous _ . One moment he was laying siege to Olympus, to the palace, to the throne room and the royalty within, and the next— 

He was suspended in the grey void of his mindscape. Nothing,  _ nothing  _ until a golden string appeared. He flinched, squinting his mind's eye and nearly awoke at the brightness of the ichor in the living bond. But this was wrong, it was a dream— it must be, it had to be— because the bond was whole, it wasn’t fractured, it wasn't severed. It wasn’t real, he knew it wasn't actually whole because he’d seen it break the moment that— t-that Nico… that he… 

Percy reached out to touch it— to feel normal, to feel whole, if but for a moment— despite its illusionary fakeness. Maybe he'd be able to feel his brother again— be able to sense that dark and frigid comfort for the first time since losing him. It was that thought that had him reaching out, hovering his palm above it. The moment he made contact, the mirage shattered and like a shell of glass it fell away to reveal the truth. Rather than a strand spanning infinite to left and right, it came from the left and stopped before him. And where his hand had touched it, the bond was now sliced. The rest that had spanned to his right was now falling to the grey ground, ashen grey itself, leeched of ichor, void of life. 

_ “Your fault _

_ This is all your fault _

_ You could have saved him” _

_ ‘No. you made me promise not to let you, I won’t break that. And think, you could lose control.’ _

_ “Your fault _

_ This is all your fault _

_ You could have saved him, you could have saved him” _

_ ‘You could kill him, Percy.’ _

_ “YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HIM” _

Without warning, the writhing thing inside snapped its chains and attacked with a battle cry— not his core, but his head with the full force of a migraine. He let out a gasp at the sharpness and all he knew was pain, pain, pain. It was splitting his head in two, it was going to gouge a hole through his skull it was— he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t think he was trapped he was trapped he didn’t know up from down was he even in bed still? Was he thrashing on the floor? Was he awake?

_ Am I awake? _

_ “You could have saved him” _

He didn’t know he didn’t know— it was- there was nothing but this— it was inescapable. Vaguely he made out an ache in his nose and a burning in his eyes, something cold and fast pouring out, choking him, blinding him, and his pulse was wild it was fire he was burning up and roaring like a water rapids in his ears and there was a dull throb at his hands and knees but none of it compared to the sensation of electrically charged cotton filling his head, pressing into his sinuses, swelling his brain— it was- he couldn’t take it couldn’t take it couldn’t take it couldn’t— 

_ PLEASE MAKE IT STOP  _

_ “YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HIM” _

He was screaming, he must be, but— no no if he focused there was no agony in his throat. He was gasping for air but nothing more. No one would find him, no one would save him he was— He was going to die. He was going to— no. No. No no no n- wait… wait what was that? What was t— 

_ Water _

That was the only thought he could pierce through the white hot anguish that blinded his senses— every sense but the one. The one that chanted: _Water. Water. Water._ He didn’t know how, nor how long it took, but he felt the push of gravity as he fell off what must be the dock of his cabin and slipped into the frigid water. And when he gasped, oxygen filled him. Crisp, beautiful oxygen. As the lake embraced him, as he sunk deeper and deeper, not bothering to control his descent or shield with a bubble, the pain lessened. He kept his eyes shut even as they burned, let his senses regain, and by the time his back met the bottom of the lakebed, the pain was gone. He parted his eyes, blinking a strangeness from them, and looked up. Rays of light in great columns shone through the water just as with any morning. But this time... a column of his own creation had been cast down. A beam suspended in the water that looked like red smoke. He brought a hand to his face only to find when it brushed against his nose and across his eyes, the areas were sensitive. As if he’d wielded _his_ _own_ blood accidentally and had been unable to relent. He needed answers. He needed to talk to someone. He needed Nic-

“Percy?  _ Percy?!”  _

A voice high above the rippled surface called out, growing more concerned with every yell, muffled by the immensity of the water above him. He tried to take a deep breath, but he was shaken to the core. He settled for a half intake of air before unsteadily willing himself to rise alongside the column of watery crimson. Anxiety prodded him like a hot rod, his mind associating land with that recent agony, but he forced himself to breach the surface. 

He pulled himself from the lake, using the water and his aching muscles to roll back onto the deck with a groan barely suppressed by his clenched teeth. Somehow he managed to get out a breathless warning for whoever it was to stay back and an exhausted wave of his trembling hand before laying flat on his back, relishing the solidity of the dock beneath him. Whoever the visitor was headed his desperate plea and made no move to him. Each breath was rattled, uneven, and each of his muscles quivered with a numb tingling as if they had been starved of that vital plasma. 

He felt nauseous, his stomach rolling, his mind recoiling as that voice with no form whispered in that way only he could hear:  _ you are a danger to your friends, to your family, to those most loyal to you. They may have betrayed you, but to them, you will be loyal until their dying days. The days that you will bring. There is no enemy to protect them from, no monster to shield them from. The enemy, the monster, is  _ you _. This thing inside you… you will be their devastation. And now… now you will be your own.  _

Another voice, this one a memory of Athena, melded in with those words that singed his spirit:  _ “To save a friend, you would let the world burn. Your fatal flaw, son of Poseidon. It will be your demise.” _

There were too many voices, too much weight to them all. Each word was a needle impaling his spirit— unrelenting, intensity increasing. Before they could drown him or awaken the thrashing power that had just begun to calm down within its new chains, Percy forced his focus onto the sounds of the tide gently lapping at the wooden planks beneath him. It overwhelmed him with the urge to plunge back into the serenity of the lake’s embrace where it seemed the voices could never reach him. Instead, he opened his eyes, squinting at the light reflecting from Jason’s blond hair and the stinging memory of when he’d likely been weeping blood from them.

“Percy?” the Roman exodus asked with more concern than caution. “Percy, you okay? Do you need me to get Will or Bethany?” 

Percy hesitated at the tone in Jason’s voice, and at the way he stood in the doorway to the back of the cabin but kept glancing behind him into the room. But he managed to get prop himself into a sitting position and expelled the last of the water from his clothes and hair before parting his lips to respond. His jumbled thoughts were silenced, faltering, as he took in the scene that snagged at Jason’s attention.

Both Greek and Roman did not speak as Percy struggled to rise and limped across the deck. His leg was nearly healed after the fall into the water and the days of antibiotics and tending by Bethany, the limp was more a result of shock than physical pain.

The rustic, driftwood double doors looked like they’d been thrown open and a trail of large crimson drops stained the floor in a path to the dock from his bed. His bed… he’d definitely flung himself from it. What sheets weren’t half strewn on the ground were crumpled to one side of the bed as if he’d thrown them off of himself and the pillows… they were splotched red. Even the fountain at the room’s center had a red handprint on it, and there were water puddles on the floor throughout the room, splashed against the walls and even the ceiling. Percy stumbled through the space in a daze, remembering nothing, having been too trapped by the disarming force of agony to have any coherence or control over his abilities. An agony, and destruction, of his own creation. 

After taking it all in, Percy leaned against the ruined fountain and turned to Jason after a moment of being transfixed by how familiar that bloody handprint staining the stone looked. A discomfort clouded his senses for a heartbeat, the stinging of tears with it, but he jerked his attention to Jason’s worried face, then lower. And when at last he parted his lips, Percy spoke to the bandage on the Roman’s forearm.

“I’m fine. What do you want?” 

“Percy, you can talk to me,” Jason pleaded gently, ignoring the caustic tone. “What happened here?”

No. No, Percy wanted to talk to Nico. But Nico wasn’t here. He wasn’t here and Jason had kept so much from him. He’d helped Annabeth tell the other cabin leaders and still hadn’t told him. Jason had revealed nothing even when Percy had begged on hands and knees on the Argo for someone, anyone to prove they could end his life. So he narrowed his eyes and said, “McLean and Clovis knocked me out,” then waved around the room with as much grandiose as his conflicted body could gather, “shockingly, there were repercussions.” 

_ Understatement of the century,  _ Percy thought to himself. His powers trembled in remembrance of the forced slumber that had indeed granted him a nights sleep but had set off the attack on himself. He grinded his jaw.

Jason shifted on his feet beneath the glare of those sea green eyes. That sickening shroud of exhaustion that had been clinging to the son of Poseidon for days, weeks, was almost entirely gone. Despite the questionable morality of what she’d done, Jason could see Percy desperately needed whatever sleep she and Clovis had forced onto him. But where the bone deep weariness and exhaustion had been was now a honed focus and feral-like clarity that had Jason swallowing roughly. And it wasn’t lost on Jason that Percy hadn’t called her ‘Pipes’ like usual. The two were close friends— at least they had been before all of this. 

“Listen, I had no idea she and Clovis were going to do that.”

“How relieving,” Percy bit back spitefully. He shook his head. “Why should I believe you? Your track record for honesty is seriously lacking these days.”

It took every ounce of training he’d ever received to not balk or retreat at the accusatory harshness. Instead, he took a shallow breath and tried a tone of reasoning and amending. “What’s done is done, Percy. I would take it back in a heartbeat if I could,  _ gods  _ I would do anything to take it all back. So would the others. We all thought we were doing the right thing, but we miscalculated and for that I am, and forever will be, sorry. More than sorry. I will have this on my conscience for the rest of my life and in death.” Percy was as still as the stone he sat on, those eyes just as hard. “Hate me or whatever will make you feel better, but nothing that’s happened erases the fact that the others and I are worried about you. We want to help.  _ I  _ want to help— however I can.”

By some strain of impossibility, the sound Percy let out somehow felt like their entire fight on the Argo contained within a single chime of laughter. Like clashing swords of imperial gold and celestial bronze, like moonlight and lightning, like desperation and wrath, like fear and yearning, like sky and sea. The stark white line that marked where his camp necklace used to be suddenly looked like a phantom noose.

“Percy?” Jason asked hesitantly, confused and more than a little unsettled. The sound of his nightmares abruptly stopped. Percy’s stare held the intensity, the ruthlessness, the unpredictability of the seven seas. 

Lupa’s teachings failed Jason, years of Roman obedience and discipline were torn down by the unforgiving wrath in his friend’s words.

“ ‘What’s done is done’... must be nice to put this all in the past, huh? Bet it hurts less that way. If you ever reference Nico’s death as a ‘miscalculation’ again, it’ll take a lot more than Frank’s hellhound form and Piper’s charmspeak to hold me back.” It wasn’t a threat from a demigod, but from the God Killer himself. And though his shoulders were slightly hunched and his eyes averted, Jason could feel the pure power rippling from that tan skin in gentle, persistent waves. The son of the sea did not relent. “And even if you could do anything, I don’t want your help. I don’t want anything to do with you or that damn eagle on your arm.” He scoffed, “How fitting that you— who kept me from knowing about Nico’s powers, kept me from knowing of a possible way to learn about and control my own, kept me from working with him to create a solution that could have saved us all and ensured his survival— are marked with the animal who killed him. Glad to see that eons of life haven’t ridded the Fates of their sense of humor.”

Percy gave Jason no time to recover from the verbal lashing, only scrunched his nose in a near snarl and said, “Why are you really here, Grace? I know it wasn’t to apologize, so get on with it.”

Riptide was suddenly in Percy’s hands. Jason startled and made to reach for his own blade, but Percy didn’t aim it at him, only reached for a piece of rubble from the fountain and began to sharpen the sacred blade. Head down, Percy glanced up through the tousled raven locks of his hair with a cold smirk.

It was true, Jason hadn’t apologized yet, he didn’t think any of them had. How did one ask forgiveness for withholding information that could’ve prevented everything— the loss of a friend and the estrangement of another? Jason had been grappling with that question ever since the beast had risen from the dead corpses and charged Nico on the battlefield. He parted his lips to explain himself and try to apologize once more, but a particularly loud  _ shhhhink  _ of stone against celestial bronze cut off the attempt. Percy wasn’t having it. Jason relented, admitting in defeat the reason for his visit. 

“Chiron, he’s called for a meeting of the Seven and head councilors.”

Percy flipped the pommel in his palm, dragging the stone across the other edge and said without looking up, “Why?”

_ shhhhink _

Jason tried to ignore the precision in Percy’s sharpening— it took immense skill to get such an even and honed edge with such a rough stone. He shrugged, knowing that despite Percy’s eyes being averted, he could sense the gesture. 

_ shhhhink _

“Are the Romans gone?”

“They depart within the hour for New Rome.”

_ shhhhink _

“Are you going with them?”

Jason knew he was playing with hellfire—  _ armed  _ hellfire, in more ways than one— but countered “Do you want me to”, genuinely wanting to know the answer.

The stone paused. Percy set it down beside him and Riptide configured back into a pen. He looked up with an unreadable expression. “Are you going with them,” he repeated, nothing in the blank tone revealed his feelings.

Jason shook his head.

“Frank and hazel?”

Jason shook his head again, explaining Hazel wasn’t well enough to travel and Frank refused to leave until she said she was ready. Percy nodded his head but showed no sign of his thoughts or opinions. After a moment of staring unseeingly at the floorboards splattered with blood and water, he looked down at himself pointedly— to the stained, wrinkled, nearly ripped clothes— and muttered, “Give me a sec to change.” 

Jason nodded and made his way across the destruction that felt of desperation and anguish, then pushed the front door open gently. As he turned to close it, he got a glimpse of the God Killer with forearms braced atop his thighs, face hidden behind two scarred and trembling hands. Jason shut the door, giving Percy a moment of privacy. As Jason took a seat on the steps, he hoped upon all hope that Chiron had good news for them. Though his heart… his heart knew there was no such thing.

* * *

Clatter from the Roman’s departure rode the morning breeze up, up, up and through the open windows of the Big House game room. A son of Athena had delivered a letter early that morning from Annabeth, curtly stating that Reyna, Jason, Hazel, and Frank would be staying at Camp Half-Blood for the time being, claiming it wasn't a good idea to leave just yet; a sentiment which Annabeth strongly supported and wrote in such a manner that told Chiron the decision had been made and he was being informed out of courtesy. 

Chiron's thoughts wandered to his desk in his office a floor above the room he now stood. That desk with its locked drawer, a small stack of parchment and it's heavy words bestowed upon it in ever so trembling font. In that drawer, on that parchment, contained the last words Nico had ever spoken to him, immortalized in ink. He could still recall with perfect clarity, the son of Hades standing in an unknown forest just last week, his form swaying in the mist, silver in his eyes from the moonlit tears as he made Chiron promise an oath to him. The Praetor… Chiron needed to speak with her; but also Will and Percy and Hazel. That would all have to wait though, for another memory, another iris message— this one occurring only moments ago that had prompted his call out for the Head Councilors— a conversation of great urgency, replayed in his mind. 

There was a knock on the open door frame and he looked over one shoulder, nodding tightly in greeting as the Stoll brothers and Miranda Gardener entered. They talked amongst themselves, their voices a flurry yet hushed as they took their usual places around the pool table. Chiron returned to looking out the window, watching the tents be removed from the horizon as the Romans took down their makeshift camp and loaded supplies and weapons into their ships in perfect synchronicity and militaristic order. He watched them, but did not see. No, his attention was on that recent iris message, and the desperation from his friend's voice.

_ “Where did we all go wrong?” Dionysus whispers with an amount of self-loathing that causes Chiron to falter. _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “The gods, all of us, how did we become so blind? So heartless, so soulless? What is the point of immortality if we are destined to become corrupt?”  _

_ “Easy, my friend. Day by day, remember.” _

_ “Day by day,” he echoed, voice hollow. _

_ “Now,” Chiron urged, “tell me what’s happened.” _

The replaying of their conversation was interrupted by another knock, only this time there was no pause for approval, for the daughter of Athena strode right into the room without a single nod or acknowledgement to Chiron's existence as she moved to the farthest seat from him. The Stoll's reached over the arms of their chairs to playfully bat at her shoulders and Miranda gave a respectful dip to her head, the most delicate of smiles on her lip. Annabeth seemed happy to see the three, but Chiron could tell her smile was forced. Not a moment later, a third knock came. Chiron and the seated demigods all turned in unison to see the threshold filled with a demigod Chiron did not often see outside of his own cabin. Koss Visser's jaw was set in what was either frustration or rage but not directed to anyone present, evident in the way his expression softened to that of shyness, his frame hunching slightly in an attempt to make his height less imposing. He remained standing in the door, not crossing the threshold but instead looking to Chiron.

"Lou Ellen is unwell. I understand this meeting was intended for head councilors only, but she sent me in her place, if that is alright with you?" Despite everything, Chiron found himself smiling at the accented voice and kindhearted demeanor from the immensely gifted son of Hecate. That was until Chiron realized he had never seen Koss without his equally skilled brother, Elsin.

"Of course, you are more than welcome to join us. Please," he said warmly, gesturing to the unoccupied seats. He did so and nodded to the others who gave welcoming smiles. Once seated, Chiron could tell Koss was uncomfortable so he asked from beside the window, "You say Lou Ellen is not feeling well?"

The others stopped talking, the room descending into deeper and deeper silence as Koss revealed what his sister had done, where she had gone, who she had spoken to— and what she had discovered on her secret visit to the Spire on Olympus. Chiron's eyes were wide, as were the others, as Koss' voice enveloped them all. When he was finished, Connor asked a question to which Koss only nodded— that rage he'd been wearing before asking to join had returned, those purple eyes flashing. But Annabeth didn't hear Connor's question, she was still on edge from the night terrors she'd been pulled from by the sound of Chiron's iris message that morning. By the time Clovis and Piper had reached her, the duo had been so tired they hadn't been able to force onto her a restful sleep. Her night terrors had been vengeful as wraiths— and they hadn't been about Tartarus. Rather, claws gouging her; turning to see across a battlefield cheering demigods, Nico among them as she fell to gore riddled earth; her own palm pressing into Percy's cheek as he knelt beside her deathbed, leaving a mark of red behind once her strength faltered; watching the gathered stand beside that bed she bled out on as the life drained from her body; burning atop the pyre, torso ripped to shreds but still alive as she screamed— as she screamed and as Percy stood by watching with that feral battlefield smile through the curtain of crimson flames.

She practically jumped in her seat when a knock at the door beat down the memories of her phantom terrors and brought her back to the present, to reality. Beside her, Koss was flush with embarrassment after having jolted slightly as well, seemingly lost in his own torment— understandably so, after all he had revealed.

This time it was Piper, Leo, and Clarisse who entered one after the other. Each moving to take their place, nodding to the others and to Chiron. Before Piper could fully cross the room, Chiron cleared his throat.

"Piper," he gestured to the opposite side of the room, "if you would?"

She shared a look of confusion with Annabeth who went alert, but shrugged and released the back of the chair she'd been about to pull out, crossing over to the private corner of the room instead.

"Is something wrong?" She asked once his hooves had silenced.

The centaur lowered his voice despite how the Stoll brothers and Leo were talking quite loudly now, trying to make Koss feel included. "Clovis informed me that you coerced him into using his abilities on the Seven and Will."

_ Oh, he better not show up to this meeting, that tattle-tale piece of sh—  _

"What of it?" she replied calmly.

Chiron's tail flicked, brushing up against the corner he was backed into. "That was highly immoral of you," he chided.

Had she been a normal human girl, or even an average demigod, the reprimand would have stung, would have bit at her pride and eagerness to make superiors proud. Fortunately, she was not a normal girl, nor an average demigod. Her mortal upbringing had taught her that living to please others was a fruitless effort, and that gaining the attention and praise of parental figures or higher authority was even more so. So rather than be taken aback like some softhearted child, Piper took a step forward and scoffed, her voice dangerously low and straining to keep silent. “Immoral? You want to know what’s  _ immoral? _ Percy hadn’t slept in over  _ forty six hours!” _

“I am aware," Chiron crossed his arms, not backing down an inch, "but you had no right t-”

“You were aware? Well I didn’t see you doing anything about it. Actually, come to think of it, I haven’t seen you do much of anything. It took Annabeth coming in here and tearing you a new one just to get some gods damned help with the funeral preparations that my cabin had to do alone. We are teenagers, some of my siblings barely  _ children _ , and yet we stayed up all night creating shrouds for corpses! Sorry if that’s ‘just another day at the office’ for you, but we aren’t ancient beings.” The camp director's brows stitched together and he opened his lips to object or defend but she didn't care. She might not have been a camper as long as Annabeth or some of the others, but that just meant she saw straight through Chiron’s bullshit. Without any sort of friendly bond towards the centaur, she could see from day one of her being at Camp that he didn’t seem to do much of anything, and Mr. D was even worse.

Piper raised her voice ever so slightly, utterly incredulous and at her wits end, “How old are you, Chiron? A book I read said three  _ thousand  _ years. Have you just given up? Is that what it is?? I won't tell you how to do your job, but you need to get over yourself, everyone here is grieving in their own ways and they need you. They need someone older, wiser, more experienced with losing loved ones. You have a job, a purpose, and  _ that _ is greater than your pain.”

She could tell it wasn’t. Piper had sensed the heartache and sorrow before even stepping into the room— it radiated from the famed trainer of heroes and legends. She would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t enjoy the spike as those words like daggers impaled themselves into the immortal heart across from her. It was an effort not to breathe in deeply and smile. Instead, she clenched her hands and said, “I will not apologize for my actions nor will I for when I do the same thing on this night and the next and the next, until my friends— my  _ family—  _ can get the rest they need from this gods forsaken reality you immortals forced us into. And if you try to stop me, a sleep deprived God Killer will be the very least of your worries.”

With that and nothing more, the daughter of Aphrodite turned on her heel and joined the others who paused their conversation long enough to watch her pull a chair over between Annabeth and Connor.

Sometime during the exchange, Frank and Hazel had entered the room— the later with fresh bandaging wrapped around both palms. The table's perimeter was nearly filled. Piper waved hello then looked to where she'd come. Chiron was frozen in place for a moment before slowly making his way back to the window. Piper nearly smiled at the dazed look, the white knuckled grip on the window ledge. Evidence of the bloodshed of emotions she had caused. It seems she had correctly sensed each and every one of his weak points. She was relishing in her success and trying to figure out how she'd been able to  _ feel _ his insecurities when Annabeth placed a hand on her arm.

"Is everything alright?" the way she side eyed Chiron— as if she'd go over there and knock him out the window if he'd said anything rude to Piper— elicited a soft chime of laughter.

"Nothing I couldn't handle," she said with a wink. She could tell Annabeth was trying to return the smile, but it didn't reach those captivating grey eyes. Something like sorrow injected Piper, and she wished whatever this new sensitivity was, whatever strength she was finding in herself could help bring her friend back to her old self. She took Annabeth's hand into her own, a silent act of support and comfort. All she could offer her friends besides her dagger and her charmspeak. To Piper's surprise, a genuine shadow of a smile graced Annabeth's lips. But then it fell at the sound of one last knock.

Piper could tell Jason had been totally correct in keeping her from going to get Percy, for her boyfriend's features instantly filled with relief upon meeting her eyes, contrasted by the stormy sea green gaze of the God Killer who entered behind him. She could tell their walk over hadn't been on the friendliest of terms. Jason headed straight for Piper, sitting down in the chair Miranda had pulled over for him while Percy walked past the table, leaning against the back wall instead.

Piper noted that he looked better— all things considered. The area around his eyes no longer looked bruised beyond recognition. Before collapsing from exhaustion and the beginnings of burnout, Piper had stumbled into the Apollo cabin— the medbay being too far away— and crashing to the ground with a note clutched in her hand saying that she was fine, just tired but that Percy needed immediate medical attention. They had done a good job, it looked like the infection was gone, the swelling down, and a much less intense bandage covered what had been a truly gruesome wound.

She found herself unable to tear her eyes from Percy who was watching Annabeth. He used to look at the legendary daughter of Athena as if the moon and stars were kept behind her eyes. But now, he looked in her direction as if a rusted, poisoned blade were twisting within his heart the moment their gaze connected. He looked at her as if she had crushed the moon and stars between her scarred hands right in front of him. From him, Piper could feel a multilayered heartbreak— the loss of a brother and the loss of trust that he had placed above even himself. His anguish was like a siren's call, the tattered soul bond like strings on a harp, his agony playing a melody only she could hear.

Chiron cleared his throat from the window and it seemed he’d gotten his wits back together because he neared the table, standing at the head with both arms crossed behind his back. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice.” Annabeth scoffed, his tail bristled but he said nothing except, “For those who joined late, Koss informed us that Lou Ellen was able to confirm that the beast was her mother’s casting, but that Zeus had supreme control of it.”

“So then, this really was murder?” It was Clarisse who broke the uneasy silence, her own voice strained in a way Annabeth had never heard before. She turned her head slightly to see Percy with his hands in his pockets, looking at a spot on the floor. He closed his eyes for a moment and when they opened, Annabeth flicked her own away.

“I am afraid so.”

Annabeth forced herself to speak up. “So then we go to Olympus, tell the other Major gods everything.”

Chiron shook his head. “I am afraid that will not be a successful endeavor.”

“Why not?” The steel in Annabeth’s gaze turned molten. “We have proof, even the gods won’t stand for this.”

“I am afraid they already have.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dionysus called. The God King has been hard at work in the past two days, going to each god individually, painting himself a hero. He claims to have protected their children by…,” a flash of unease as his eyes flicked to Percy, “by ending Nico.”

_ “Zeus is going around rallying allies and forming allegiances” Dionysus finally manages to get out. “Percy, Hazel, Jason… they’re all in trouble.”  _

_ Chiron could feel his head go light at the news. “And has he been successful?”  _

_ “According to Apollo who informed this all to me... frighteningly so.” _

Annabeth was brought to silence, and from beside her, Jason breathed out a near silent,  _ “No.” _

“No,” Travis echoed with the shake of his head, “they don’t really believe that, they can’t, they wouldn't…right?”

“I wish it were not so.”

“So what?” Leo’s voice was frantic as he demanded, “We just- we let him get away with this? He keeps his throne and the gods praise him for protecting their kids?”

“That is not all,” Chiron said regretfully, recalling the most dire part of the message. “Zeus is holding council tomorrow, extending it past the Major Twelve. He plans to hold a vote.”

“A vote for what?” Connor asked, “He’s a king, he doesn’t need to hold votes for anything”

Annabeth raised her eyes slowly, calculating, wheels spinning, “That’s not true. There are certain decisions of high enough magnitude that a vote is strongly recommended— albeit, not mandatory. Olympus is no simple mortal monarchy. Basically, if he wishes to save face and appear in the right, then to allow for a vote to be held sends a powerful message. It’s a power play, a way of showing he is unafraid of being perceived as the one at fault. Because why would a guilty king call for a vote. He’s attempting to seal his fate and ensure his rule."

Miranda let out a curse under her breath and Koss’ jaw was corded as he contained his rage. Chiron only nodded, adding, “Correct, though one rule must be obeyed predates even the God King himself: any being may attend an extended council, though only the gods voices hold any voting power once the meeting commences.”

She turned to the centaur, meeting his eyes for the first time since that meeting the night before the funeral. “Chiron, what does he want?”

“To dilute Jason and Hazel’s powers. And to drain Percy’s in its entirety.”

“I’m sorry he wants to do  _ what _ ?” Leo blurted out, the Stolls and Jason having similar reactions. Even Hazel went still. Percy blinked, the only thing that revealed his shock.

Chiron met Hazel and Jason’s eyes— the former was no more than a wraith, her gaze unfocused and glossy, arms wrapped around herself as if to hold onto the fragments of her spirit. She gave no indication she’d even heard what he’d admitted. “In the name of equality for all demigods and fear of a God Killer, he has garnered much support for these ideals. He claims demigod bodies are not capable of containing or wielding such power. That ridding Percy of his and reducing Jason and Hazel's is to help them.”

“This was never about Nico,” Frank thought aloud, “It was about that damn throne. Nico was a stepping stone, a catalyst to get the gods on Zeus’ side and remove the threat of a demigod growing powerful enough to stop him."

"Maybe,” Chiron said, not sounding at all convinced, “but I doubt that was his initial plan. As far as I know, no one knew either Percy or Nico were God Killers. There would be no way of him knowing."

“Well it doesn’t really matter now anyway,” Frank muttered to himself.

“So what, that’s it?” Leo’s eyes were blown wide, “He’s won? ‘Cause it’s sounding like the only way to stop this is to… ya know... ”

Before they could all look to the God Killer, Chiron cleared his throat, “There may be another way… a way to convince them.”

"Who? Hades?"

"Not quite.  The King of the Underworld would be impactful, but not the massive sway you need right now.”

“Who then?” Annabeth pushed, growing impatient.

In the morning light that cascaded in through the windows, Chiron’s face looked gaunt and tired, but also something she’d never seen grace the seasoned warrior’s features… fear. 

“Persephone.”

The air stilled, and Annabeth couldn’t help but feel like her very bones ached at the name.

Jason’s brows scrunched, “Why would she h-” 

"She will," Percy interjected from the back of the room, surprising them all. Nico hadn't liked to talk about it much, but he and Persephone had grown incredibly close. Percy's entire body ached at the memories of Nico talking so fondly of her while they sat on the railing of the Argo or in the shade of his favorite tree by the lake.

“Okay, well how are we supposed to ask?”

“Jason’s right, the nearest portal is too far, and it’s not like we can just send an iris message.”

Chiron shook his head. “No, not an iris message she despises such communication and never answers them. If you really want to get her attention…” A hand slid into his pocket and when it opened, a small almond shaped seed rest in his palm. With a glance at Miranda, the seed cracked, revealing a single rose blossom, its ombre petals unfurling to reveal each was tipped with pale pink that turned into yellow. A Princess Diana rose— Persephone’s favorite. “Go to the pond in the Hades Cabin, place this in the liquid, speak. She will hear you. Whether she responds or aids our cause or not is not so certain. But she will hear you.”

Fear unleashed itself within Annabeth's core, not for who they were summoning, but for Percy who hadn’t so much as stepped foot in the vicinity of Nico’s cabin. Even Hazel had not gone inside, sleeping in a spare room in the Ares cabin instead. 

But to everyone's surprise, it was Percy who reached out for the rose, holding it gently within his numb hands that couldn’t feel the velvet petals it bore. Then, like the shadows Nico used to wield, Percy silently exited the room with a certain fluidity and, the other demigods close behind, walked straight to the cabin of obsidian, halting only once they reached the door. Percy’s hand ghosted over the handle— the image of his dreams flashing over top of reality, painting the door handle gold rather than ebony wood. He blinked it away, no longer feeling ichor coating his palm as it had in the dream. He gripped the handle. That familiar chill from the spell long since casted sent bolts of chill down his arm, through his entire body. Percy let it flow, relished in the sensation that rattled his bones. With one hand, he turned the handle, straightening his arm to send the door slowly swinging inward. He stood in the open door frame for a heartbeat, and then another. Deep inside himself, those chained powers opened an eye. Percy crossed the threshold. 

Their footfalls were impossibly loud against the perfectly polished floors, the reflections that moved in tandem beneath them looked as if another dimension— one where the whole world was turned upside down… Percy felt like he was already in it. The shadows seemed to watch them, silently, ever-present, waiting. Waiting for a master who would never come home. And with every step further into the dark room— the only light from the still open door behind them— Percy’s powers jerked against their chains, lashing out but not to fight, not to attack him or anyone in the room… it was as if they were trying to get away, trying to recede further into himself. To hide from the pain of the soul bond that began to flicker beside it.

Once at the farthest wall, Percy knelt— an arm wrapped across his core to ease the pressure from within, the other he braced against the liquid’s edge. Though the water appeared ink-black, Percy knew it was just from how the small pond had been painted. He called to the water, and it responded like any other. After sending a soft ripple through it, he focused on the reflection that he barely recognized instead of the room around him, the memories it held that haunted his mind and crushed his soul. Opening his palm to reveal the rose, he focused on the wrinkled petals as they smoothed to perfection by the distant touch of Miranda from somewhere behind him, he watched it pop back to life rather than look at any of those gathered. They all remained silent, even the Stoll’s, as Percy lowered his hand, allowing the flower to ease from his palm to the dark water’s surface.

“Zeus killed him. He and Hecate, they… they created and controlled the beast that slaughtered Nico. They’re going to take our powers away because of… because of everything. Zeus says our half breed bodies can’t contain the power and is the reason for… for  _ his  _ death. But it’s not true. It’s not true. With training, he could have… I could have... If he’d been taught about it, learned to harness it, then none of this would have happened. But it doesn’t matter because now…” Percy’s head fell, forehead pressing against the stone worn from its owner’s touch. “If I had known, if I had trained, if I had just been  _ better _ … then Nico would still be alive.” His voice grew hoarse with the strain of words so long left unspoken. “So I’m begging you, please help us,” then added in a whisper so low that none other could hear, “please help me.” 

The pond did nothing, the flower continued to bob on the gentle current but nothing more. No sign that the Goddess Queen had heard, no sign that she cared. Percy rose to his feet. Maybe he was wrong, maybe Persephone had gone just as corrupt as the other immortals. Maybe all of her love for Nico had been fake— it wouldn’t be the first time a god did such a thing. With one last look at the Princess Diana floating atop the void, Percy clenched his jaw and turned away, shaking his head with disappointed frustration as he exited the cabin of death.

After a moment, the others followed suit, leaving the pond, the cabin, and going their separate ways to prepare for the council that would decide so much. Still inside by the pool, tears threatening to well up in her eyes, Annabeth lowered to her knees and clasped the pond’s dark edge.

“I am sorry. I am so so sorry for my part in all of this. I- I had no idea this would happen, what it would do to them both. I was trying to protect them, I was…  _ gods  _ I don’t know what I was thinking… I was just so scared of losing Percy. And it cost me them both,” Her voice cracked on the admission, a sob unwillingly bubbling from her lips as she spoke to the ombre rose. “Please don’t turn your back on Percy and Jason and Hazel because of my actions. Please don’t think you are avenging your son by ignoring Percy’s plea. He has suffered enough, they all have. Take it out on me if you’d like, send me to the Fields of Punishment or throw me back in Tartarus, but please…  _ please  _ just help them. If there must be suffering to atone, then let it be mine.”

The daughter of Athena got to her feet, somehow feeling lighter after offering her spirit to the Queen of Death. She could handle pain, she could handle torment, she could handle anything— but she could not, would not ever be able to see Percy endure the same.

She turned away from the pond and stepped through darkness, back into the light and shut the door softly behind her. 

The cabin was empty of life, empty of eye, when the rose slipped below the dark water’s surface and did not emerge.

* * *

The Princess Diana’s petals wilted in her palm from the water they had been pulled through. Half a thought had it springing back to vibrancy. 

The daughter of Athena’s words echoed throughout the room, creating a melody with the crackling hearth of shadowfire. And what Percy Jackson had claimed… she felt the truth in those words. The rose was crushed beneath her trembling hand. She turned around to find Hades running a finger along the sliver of scar tissue at his own palm.

As those twin orbs of swirling shadows lifted to her, Persephone turned the destroyed rose to cold ash and stepped close enough to hear Hades mutter, “I have an idea.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It’s been awhile, sorry about that! Something scary with my computer happened and I nearly lost all of my notes for this story... so that was super cute for me :)))
> 
> Hope you’re doing well and enjoy this update! There may not be a lot of action in this one but it’s important set up for what is to come. The update after next will be the much anticipated extended council meeting on Olympus! It was meant to be this update but I realized I’ve totally neglected Will and Reyna for a while so re-evaluated the order of events :)  
> Okay that’s all for now, hope you like it and let me know what you think!
> 
> TW: Mentions of Zeus’ past abusive actions towards Apollo. Mentions of self harm. Okay so remember how in fractured Darkness I made mention that to cope with extreme losses, Will puts a line over his heart? While he doesn’t do that, something else does happen that is self harm but I do not go into graphic detail of him actually doing it. To skip this part, I will put (*TW*) at the beginning and end. Take care of yourself and let me know if I need to elaborate more on the warning. Not trying to catch anyone off guard <3

Will turned his back to the passed out Roman on the exam table to swear under his breath violently. It had taken half a dozen stitches to close the wound on her forehead— an ordeal during which she’d lost consciousness from the mild anesthesia he’d administered. The cut hadn’t been deep enough to warrant any sort of alarm, and she was sure to regain consciousness soon especially once he feathered a thin bundle of fragrant herbs beneath her freckled nose. No, it wasn’t the patient’s state that agitated Will, but rather his own. 

Concealed within blue rubber gloves, his hands were wrapped tightly and efficiently in many layers of thin gauze, and hidden within those wrappings… 

He bit another curse as the throbbing turned to a sharp stinging sensation, most definitely due to the intricate motor skills the row of sutures had demanded. Checking the curtain to make sure none of his siblings would walk in, then behind him to ensure the patient hadn’t fully woken, Will held his breath and turned his hands over to inspect the palms. The breath left him in an uneasy stream of relief because despite the persistent pain, nothing of the crimson variety had seeped through the bandages or was visible on the gloves. 

With that ensured, Will took a steadying breath and by the time he turned back to the patient, his ‘warm and calm doctor’ mask was back firmly in place. Nothing could be further from the truth— the bone deep chill seizing his essence and stinging in his palms was evidence enough— but it didn’t matter, he had work to do. And do he did. After filling the Roman in on the status of her healing, assuring her she’d make it onto the departure ships with plenty of time to spare, and chatting for a bit to ease the nerves he knew she’d been trained to conceal, Will waved goodbye with one of his famously warm smiled and parted the curtain before exiting the room.

Before seeing his next patient— a difficult case Bethany had requested the Head Healer oversee— he needed to change his gloves as per protocol. Feeling eyes on him from all angles, he fought the urge to look down at the slightly puffed gloves and the bandaging beneath. He straightened his posture to that of confidence and made his way to the rarely occupied third floor sanitizing sinks. Despite the multitude of smiles and waves he gave to familiar faces of Greek patients or siblings as he made his way to the wooden staircase, none of the warm gestures reached him. Will had never felt so cold. It had been like that— the unnatural, unsettling, violating _cold—_ for days. Ever since… 

Sure he could still feel the slight chill of a scalpel or I.V. rack through some inherited sensitivity, but he was cold, so cold. Not the comforting cold of Nico’s embrace with its solidity and love that wrapped around his blazing heat, but cold. Just cold. 

Every time he glanced out one of the many open windows of the medbay and saw an empty bonfire or brazier, his insides twisted a bit more tightly. He missed the flames. Missed the silent goddess who sat before them; nurturing them, guarding them. He used to be able to see her from the exam room windows on the east side of the medbay and her presence brought such comfort that he used to find himself seeking a glimpse of her after a particularly difficult procedure. But she wasn’t there— no matter how incessantly he checked… as if she’d just magically reappear and this cold, so heavy in its emptiness, would fill back up with warmth. 

Why had she abandoned them when they needed her and her flames the most? Why had she left? Why? Had she deemed the demigods a lost cause? Had she known what would transpire and decided it wasn’t worth her infinite time?

He yearned to sit beside her on the ashen stone ledge and rest his head on her multicolored shoulder and weep into her patchwork clothes and listen to her ethereal mosaic voice and let it wash over him between his own broken sobs. But she was gone. Like all the gods, she had abandoned them when they needed her most.

As he climbed the creaking wooden steps he was made aware of the stiffness in his joints from when, in the moments after… after Nico passed… he’d run into the woods and remained curled tightly to himself within the torrential downpour for what must have been hours. 

His siblings had called for him, but he hadn’t responded, and in the foliage of a weeping willow, they hadn’t spotted him. But he hadn’t been truly alone. No, for he’d felt an embrace that saved him from the tempting release of hypothermic death. A formless embrace that had held him tightly in a warmth that had melted the lethal edges of his agony. An embrace that had sung to him in a voice that had quieted the racing thoughts in his mind, in a language only his essence seemed to understand. 

By the time his siblings found him, the rain had stopped. The embrace left him, and the bone deep chill seized him once more even as brothers and sisters swept him up. They’d brought him back to the cabin, fed him, tried to warm him— to no avail. When he’d proven that he was coherent, he’d gotten back to work. Not a single child of Apollo attempted to bar him from the medbay or prohibit him from working, for they knew that was the only thing he’d be able to find any semblance of solace in. Many of them were working without rest as well— in mourning of Nico, of whom they all adored, and of the others that had been lost both on battlefield and exam bed. 

The din of chatter and shuffling paper and hurried footsteps grew quieter as he ascended, at last stepping onto the third floor. He made his way down a long corridor with similarly curtain sectioned rooms and dark wooden floors. This floor served as overflow and was quieter now that all of its occupants had just finished being discharged to reunite with the other Romans and aid in departure. 

He reached the sinks which, thank the sun, were unoccupied in their quiet little corner. A large window was situated above them so that as one washed, they could look outside and get some fresh air and a moment of peace before heading back into a long shift of difficult, stressful, fulfilling work. Will closed the shutters. If he saw the unoccupied hearth one more time… _gods_ , he was so cold he couldn’t even feel the bite of the metal faucet handles. With a hiss through clenched teeth, he carefully peeled back the rubber gloves then swiftly unwound the bandages that grew less white with each rotation.

_{*TW start: self harm*}_

Raw, ripped tissue snagged on the gauze but he managed to remove it all and discard the soiled wrappings and rubber gloves into the contaminated materials waste bin beside the sinks. For a moment, he was transfixed by the sight. Transfixed… ashamed of… accepting of… He didn’t know quite how he felt or which emotion was real, but what he did know was that the twin diagonal lesions spanning either palm were very, very real. And the sharp discomfort he felt each time he moved or used either hand which was an echo of the blade he’d drug across them… that was very real too.

After the funeral, Will had ached to carve a line across his heart, right above the others. Ached for the inner pain to take physical form. But he hadn’t done it. He couldn’t. Nico’s life and all he meant to Will couldn’t be represented as a scar. The idea felt wrong— made his heart clench and insides twist even more. Will wasn’t ready to let go. He wasn’t ready.

The lacerations on either palm were not commemorative like the slender controlled marks across his heart of loved ones he hadn’t been able to save— no. These were mutilation. These were hatred and anguish. These were not to remember Nico, but instead as a desperate cure for the overwhelming dysmorphia. Because he was undeserving of these hands— hands that by godly creed were supposed to save, to heal, to mend. They were useless. He hated them so much that whenever he looked at them he saw mangled hideous things. He’d simply remedied the hallucination by carving them into reality— into his own flesh. Not deep enough to warrant stitches, but enough to scar him for life unless he consumed a few squares of ambrosia. 

Although he planned to do no such thing, his throat constricted and it became difficult to breathe when he imagined what Nico would think. Nico… he would have been horrified, he would have held Will close as they wept, he would have told him everything would be alright and that he loved Will, that he loved him no matter what marred golden skin and that he— 

_{*TW end*}_

_Shit_ , Will shook his head, realizing the faucet was still spewing water and that he’d been wasting resources and time standing here wallowing. He could drown in grief when the day was done— and, if he could help it, the day would _never_ be done. Sliced palms were nothing compared to the stabbing, mind-numbing torture that he shoved down and locked inside deeper and deeper within himself with every passing hour.

With a grimace, Will grounded himself back into the present and thrust both palms beneath the hot water. He was glad no one was around to hear the slight whimper that escaped before he regained the ability to clamp his lips. Twin streaks of roughly parted flesh seeped crimson that the clear water carried away in a steady stream. It ached, _gods_ it ached. Rather than dwell in the ravaged cry of his severed nerves, he hurriedly cleaned around each slice— blinking away tears when a bit of soap slid into one— then dried his hands, reapplied extra gauze from the inner pocket of his scrubs, got new gloves from the box above the sink, and headed back to the stairs. His mind eased and sharpened simultaneously as he descended back into the thrall, the severity of his throbbing wounds becoming more distant.

He lost himself willingly to the philharmonic symphony that was the medbay. His siblings all moved as if in time with one another to a tune only they could hear. Their cadence was interrupted by nothing, everything part of the piece thrumming in their essences. In all the many, many hours since being found in the woods, none had stopped to ask Will how he was doing nor did anyone force him to stop and rest. It wasn’t that they didn’t care— actually the opposite. They all knew that this is what Will needed more than anything. To feel the beat, to be a part of the song they all carried within them as children of light, of warmth, of music, of healing. The medbay and his family surrounding him was a shield against the world beyond the double doors. Within these walls, beside these demigods, everything had an order, had a place, had cause and effect, problem and solution, illness and cure. He hadn’t left the medbay since the funeral, working through the night, taking brief naps here and there in the attic turned lounge. 

The one thing that wrecked the façade of the medbay’s perfection was that room. That one room in the back corner of the first floor. The room where he’d lost everything.

He didn’t go near it. Except for the night before the funeral when he’d accidentally walked past it sometime deep into the night. He’d been paralyzed— feet stuck to the ground, hand glued to the curtain that he’d nearly parted as if yearning to pull it back and see Nico there on the bed, whole and alive and smiling. Kennedy, one of his younger sisters, had found him having sensed his absence in the symphony. With hands too calloused for a girl her age and a grip gentle enough to know she’d had too much experience calming people, she had taken him by the arm back to the main corridors, reintegrating him into the healing nature of healing. Kennedy must have informed the others, because when Will passed the hallway that led to that room the next morning, there was a rope to barricade anyone from nearing that back corner— to keep him from accidentally wandering there again. 

A heavy silence weighed down on them all, but there was work to be done. _Thank the diabolical gods_ , there was always work to be done. Especially since they needed to get the most injured Romans in stable enough condition to make their long journey back to Camp Jupiter— a departure that was slated to happen within the next few hours.

It wasn’t until he slipped into a room with Bethany and Josiah about to place an IV that he felt a strangeness disruptive enough to make him pause, the needle a hair width above the intended vein. With his fingers pinching the needle, his left hand burned, but the sensation of the compressed wound was drowned out by the strange… pulling?... that washed over him. Will lifted his gaze and, noting neither of his siblings seemed to notice what he was feeling, he cleared his throat and stood up.

“Hey, Bethany? Could you do this, I-I need to…” His voice drifted off at a sharp tug in the sensation and Bethany’s eyes widened ever so slightly but with a fluidity that almost made him smile, she took his place and with a glint of concern nodded before turning to the patient with an easy smile.

Will slipped from the room, making an effort not to seem out of sorts as he traveled through the symphony as an imposter. With every step as he followed the pulling, tugging thing down hall and corridor, something else creeped into his mind. An inner voice that scoffed sadly and wondered if he was going insane. That maybe the phantom pull was just a desperate creation of his mind… trauma manipulating his brain functions and hijacking his instincts. The theory strengthened when he found himself looking over his shoulder before ducking beneath the rope barricade. Standing before the swath of fabric that looked more shroud than curtain, Will steeled his nerves, raised a throbbing gloved hand, and winced at the intense sting to both his palm and his heart as he reached out and parted the curtain. One step into the room, that was all his essence allowed. How the dark figure had gotten so far as to stand before the bed baffled Will who felt the weight of his memories pushing against him like a wall of pain and grief. 

The sheets that were once soaked in Nico’s blood and shadows had been cleaned, the floorboards where Percy fell to his knees and Hazel collapsed had been scrubbed, and yet Will knew his father could see it all.

The god did not turn.

He wore a cloak of the likes Will had never seen— it was more a full-body shroud of flowing black crafted of a multitude of void-like swaths that covered the golden armor he knew was beneath and dampened the radiant aura that eternally clung to the god. It was a show of respect. It was a show of mourning. God of many— of archery, music, poetry, dance, prophecy, healing, disease, sun— and yet, Apollo had not come here as a god.

“I tried to help you save him.” Will’s pulse froze. “I gave you everything I had. It wasn’t enough.” When Apollo turned, there were tears in his shadowed eyes beneath the hood. “It wasn’t enough.”

The jovial, often childlike, humor and delight that often rivaled even Hermes, was nowhere to be found in this being of cloaked suppression. The larger than life personality was gone and in its place… Will had never seen his father look so utterly human.

Will opened his mouth. No words came out.

“I failed you, Will.” The god’s hollow voice was barely a whisper. He met his son’s gaze, those halo eyes ablaze, before glaring down at his own hands. The golden aura strengthened as he drew his arms from within the dark folds of fabric. The whisper turned harsh, solid, loathing, wrathful as he said, “What is the point of godhood when you are powerless to save the ones you care for?”

Will wanted to go over to him, to this rare display of such vulnerability, but found that his body refused to take even the smallest step closer towards that bed where dreams of a beautiful future and promises of untainted love had bled out and died. Apollo lifted his head, palms still raised as if in a plea, eyes still lined with silver tears. For a moment, the room was completely silent. Will was paralyzed having to face his memories and at the unease of seeing his father so… mortal despite that dull aura marking him a deity.

Eventually, Will was able to part his lips again in an attempt to say something, anything, but before he could strangle on words, warmth enveloped him in a way that forced a flashback to the woods. To that same warmth that had saved him from hypothermia. It took him a moment to realize that his father’s arms were wrapped around him and that he hadn’t blacked out, his face was just pressed against the cloak’s impossibly dark fabrics. And as Apollo held his son, he rasped silently, “I promised myself I would never let another… that I would never…”

He pulled back, hands braced on Will’s shoulders for a moment before removing them. Halo eyes flicked back and forth, analyzing in the same way Will did to his own patients. The once-over snagged on gloved palms. Will could’ve sworn he could feel that gaze burn through the blue rubber and gauze to see what was hidden beneath. Apollo closed his eyes, head bowing, jaw clenching. For a moment, white hot fear flashed through Will, thinking the god would chide him or demand an explanation. It was anger on that face that had inspired millions of artworks and statues spanning countries and eras. Anger that rippled from him and caused the cloak’s edges to smolder and glow as they began to burn.

Will considered fleeing— the curtain was at his back, he could run, he could-

Apollo lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs, lowering the hood of his cloak. And when he finally opened his eyes and lifted his gaze, the anger was still evident in his jaw but the rest of his face shone nothing but understanding. Deeper than Will would ever know. He does not offer to heal the wounds nor does he demand explanation, and for that, Will is beyond grateful. All the god does is motion for Will to join him on the floor. That, it seemed, his body did allow.

Apollo looked his son in the eye for a moment before taking a deep breath and averting his gaze, running a hand along the seams of his cloak instead to distract himself.

“A very long time ago, when not even your grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents had been born, I met someone. Over my life, I have met many a being— immortals, nymphs, all manner of creature— but never… never had I encountered a mortal that ensnared me so. I… I loved them with a passion that took me millennia to be capable of again. Soul mates, Aphrodite called us. The Fates have a cruel sense of humor.” Apollo tried to get out a laugh, but Will could hear it catch, could hear the pain that this story caused him. 

The god grew silent for a moment, hand stilling on the fabric as he got lost in the memories. Eyes the color of dawn, he was crooked grins, careful yet deliberate hands, a mind so brilliant— an equal to his father’s brain— and passion so strong he was determined to change the world. Desperate to leave his mark on humanity. Apollo couldn’t bring himself to meet his son’s eyes, though managed to nod when he guessed softly, “Icarus?”

Apollo wanted to talk for hours about his first soul mate, but the thought burned his eyes and caused his hands to tremble. But he wanted to- he wanted to tell his son about how Icarus would climb the highest mountain top to watch as Apollo crossed the sky in his chariot to set the sun. And how once it had descended and the world was cloaked in the moonlit sky of his sister’s creation, when Apollo’s essence was less dangerously infernal by nature, that was when they could finally be together. Together, they had explored all the revelry to be had in Crete. Together, they had explored each other. Apollo had never felt so free in all his life than when he was at Icarus’ side. Even Daedalus had loved Apollo as a son, and on more than one occasion offered ideas for sights to see or constellations to gaze beneath. Apollo began lowering the sun an hour early each day so that they could dance and sing beneath his sister’s stars until twilight. 

He wanted to tell his son what it had felt like not just to love, but to _be_ loved with equal fierceness. He wanted to tell his child that there was good in the world, that there was hope, because there was love. But he knew Will had known all of this and more. And he knew that his boy knew that it was all a lie. That reality hunted the good hearted, time drained the kind spirited, and that death was the one true inevitability— not love. 

When, to keep the existence of the Labyrinth a secret, King Minos imprisoned Daedalus and Icarus in a tower above his palace, Apollo had been visiting with his sister and joining her on a hunt across the archipelago then on Olympus answering a summons from his father that turned out to be the God King demanding penance for lowering the sun an hour early each day. It took him a day to recover from the lashing, during which his mother had barged into his chambers and demanded he leave Olympus at once and go finish healing somewhere else. So he had left beneath Hera’s watchful glare, heading to the only place he knew peace. Only to discover from the people of Crete that his beloved had been locked in a tower for months. 

Apollo’s wrath sent the sun to its zenith and set his skin alight with solar flares. Aboard his chariot, he’d nearly made it to the tower when two figures emerged on wings that echoed the sun. Blind rage turned to relief and overwhelming excitement at the chance of reuniting that the sun above him only grew hotter, brighter, reflecting his spirit. And Apollo… he had to watch the mortal who had stolen his heart plummet to the sea— wings scorched, wax dripping and melting that encased that dark skin that he knew every inch of. He remembered plummeting from the chariot, reaching out to catch his heart, but upon first contact, Icarus had screamed at the scorching touch not yet diminished by nightfall. 

And so, Apollo had let go. He had let go and... and the moment Icarus collided with the water, the moment his heart ceased to beat, there was nothing Apollo could do. Healing was one thing, bringing back from the dead… he had no cure for death, was no god of reincarnation. There was good reason no such deity existed.

And Zeus had been beyond furious at the weeping that rose the sea and nearly drowned Crete, at the crying, at the utter sorrow that in Zeus' mind made him no better than a whining mortal boy. That is what had sent his hands driving for Apollo's face until he'd choked on his own ichor, effectively staunching the shattered sounds of grief and remorse and guilt. Because in his father’s mind, a male god was to take and take and take, meant to bed others with no attachments— a sentiment Ares understood and upheld. But Apollo was not his brother. He refused to exist by the same code, refused to take advantage of others— mortal or not. And for these views, for falling in genuine love with a mortal, Apollo had nearly died by his father’s hand. 

So lost in his thoughts, Apollo realized he had not spoken in some time. His son had been sitting across from him silently, patiently waiting. With a sigh that did nothing to ease the tension built up in his body, the god began fidgeting with the cloak without really feeling it.

“I created song after song, painted piece after peace, wrote haikus and poetry, aided authors and artisans.” Those words held within them decades of work he’d selflessly dedicated to remembrance. They did nothing to convey how much that time in his life had shaped him, changed him into the god he was today. His breath became hoarse, voice cracking slightly as he said, “I burned his story into legend, into myth. I embedded his story into culture that exists even today. I made him immortal.”

As he spoke, two things dawned on Will: the first being that the anger from before hadn’t been directed towards him at all… but rather towards Zeus; and the second… that on all levels except physical, his father had been with him in the woods and had tried to comfort him in the only ways he knew how— warmth and music.

“When I lost my world, when I lost my universe…,” Apollo finally forced himself to meet his son’s eyes, “my father beat me for my mortal displays of grief. My sister is the only reason I survived my injuries.”

They sat in heavy silence as the weight of the story seeped into Will’s soul. The sharp throbbing in his palms was barely noticeable. There was nothing to say, nothing he could say to remedy the past, but Will still managed to reach out, placing a gloved hand onto the back of his father’s and say, “Thank you, for all you did to help.” He couldn’t look at the bed, but he nodded in the direction of it, “Here, and in the woods.”

That wrathful glare returned, but this time Will knew it wasn’t aimed at him, and he realized it wasn’t directed towards Zeus this time. And with his own future destroyed, Will’s only wish for his father never to look so hopeless, so pained, ever again. He knew it was a pointless wish though, this pain coiling inside his father was as immortal as the god himself. 

Apollo forced a soft smile onto his lip as he placed his other hand on top of Will’s. “I am sorry it was not enough. It seems that I am always either too strong, or too weak— too strong in killing my own soulmate, too weak to save yours. That is not a curse I ever wanted any of my children to inherit. And for that, I am sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, nothing… nothing could be done,” Will managed to get out.

Apollo’s smile died. “There is always something that can be done.”

The words came out with such conviction, such remorse that Will had a feeling it was a phrase that Apollo had both clung to and been destroyed by for his entire immortal life. Before Will could let the words cling to him, Apollo’s head jerked to the left and his eyes glossed over. Turning his attention back to Will, he rose and reached down to help Will stand.

“Your friends are on their way to see you. They carry news.” His voice became hurried, frantic even and Will nearly got whiplash from the change of tone and energy. “Just know that if you choose to join them, I swear on my life that I will get you back to Camp safely, even if all hell breaks loose. No matter what happens, know I will not let Zeus take any of you.”

“Woah woah, wait _what_ _?”_ Will sputtered, ”What are you talking about? You’re going to fight Zeus?” 

“I don’t know what could happen, but if need be, know that I will give you and your friends time to escape. Trust no one. I do not know how deep Zeus’ manipulation runs, who has sided with him in secret. I am not even sure of my own sister’s allegiance.”

“Wait, slow down, I don’t understan-”

“Just promise me, no matter what happens, that you will not attempt to aid me— promise you will run, that you will do whatever it takes to escape and not look back.”

Not knowing what he was agreeing to but unnerved beyond belief at what looked like fear creeping onto his father’s face, Will nodded. “I-I promise.”

Apollo’s shoulders slumped in relief and moved forward, embracing his son once more and holding tightly. So many of his memories had been lost due to his immortal lifespan, but this… this he did not want to forget. He’d seen that look on Hades’ face when he’d visited the underworld, a look of regret for not holding his own son enough, of not expressing his love for the demigod enough. Apollo knew that guilt. It was one he carried with him always and forever. He did not want to lose his son and as he held him tightly, a ferocity burned bright within him, burning away the cold chill of fear. He would not lose his son. 

Within his hold, Will was trying to sort through the cryptic warning. His voice was muffled by the cloak he was pressed into as he asked, “Could you really beat Zeus in a fight?”

The god released his vice grip and parted enough to take in his son’s face— to carve each feature, each smile line and freckle and pale scar into his memory. Finally he pulled away, stepping out of reach with a genuine smile.

“Not a chance.”

And then, Apollo was gone.

Will stood in the empty room for what might have been hours but was most likely mere heartbeats. And then his breathes were labored, his heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears all so quickly that he reached out for the small table beside him to keep from falling to the ground and curling in on himself like he had in the forest. 

With a head full of swirling thoughts and ears full of cotton, he somewhat desperately threw himself back to the thrall of the medbay, somehow making his way to the front desk where he grabbed a large stack of charts from the top. He gripped them tightly as if a lifeline and flipped through, manic as an addict. 

He needed something to do, something to heal. Something to busy his mind and steady his lacerated palms that burned as he flung through the seemingly endless sheets of paper. The words were all jumbled, sliding off the page through splotched vision so he just picked a random one and stared at the paper until he could find the room number. 

_Second floor, Room 15_

_Second floor, Room 15_

_Second floor, Room 15_

With every repetition in his mind, he settled— at least on the outside. A convincing façade overtook him like a second set of scrubs and he was able to fix that warm, light, comforting smile onto his face. He turned to make way for the staircase when the main doors opened. The medbay went silent. The symphony that halted for nothing… it paused. Paused and watched as the God Killer stepped through the double doors behind Frank and Piper who led the way. 

Will could feel his façade slipping with each passing second, the anxiety within him was a beast tearing down the stable columns of his mask in time with his roaring pulse. 

_Second Floor, Room 15_

He needed to get there now. Stability, stability and order and routine awaited him in Room 15. He needed to get there. The stillness of the medbay’s symphony broke and resumed once he took his first step away from the desk. 

With the hive of movement back on track, Piper regained her composure and hurried towards Will who had turned and was making his way towards the staircase at the other side of the space. Without looking over her shoulder, she knew Frank was close behind and that Percy was following albeit at a distance. He’d avoided speaking to her the entire way to the medbay, saying nothing— not even to Frank. The death pallor and gaunt eyes had reduced at the forced sleep she’d set him into, but the hazed agony had been replaced with an unsettling focus— what she could only describe as a silent yet feral hostility. It unnerved her as much as it excited her, for the heartache radiating from him had not been dulled in the slightest by the much needed hours of sleep.

She did not look back though, only ahead as she called out to Will who continued to walk away even as she asked for a moment to speak with him. Catching up after a few strides, she tried again.

“Tonight we’re going to…,” her hushed voice trailed off, taking a step into Will’s path before he could reach the first step. The healer elegantly curtailed her blockade and continued to rush by, taking the stairs two at a time. Piper shot a confused glance to Frank who returned it with concern in his brown eyes. “Uh, Will… are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I have a patient to see.”

_Second floor, Room 15_

_Second floor, Room 15_

_Second floor, Room 15_

Piper watched his features intently, but that kind doctorly smile remained unwavering on his face, the medical chart gripped firmly in a gloved hand— but the smile, it was wrong. Something was off, she could feel it. How he wasn’t completely _there_. And the heartache… her senses were practically choking on it as if asphyxiated. She swallowed the urge to bask in the onslaught of emotions radiating from the son of the sun, instead continuing to follow close behind his path of ascension. 

“Will?” Frank voiced from behind her, “I’m sure someone else can take care of your patients for a moment, this really is important.”

The master healer didn’t respond at all this time, just crested the landing and took off down the first corridor.

Will was so trapped in his own mind, so focused on keeping his paper thin façade intact that he didn’t even hear Frank’s words. All he knew was Room 15, Room 15, Room 15. Clarity awaited in Room 15— clarity and order and he’d be able to forget all of this confusion, be able to forget the fear in his father’s voice, the rambling about going somewhere and getting out without looking back and fighting Zeus or not or… Room 15… he just needed to get to— 

_There._

He nearly sagged in relief. The cry his palm let out fell on deaf ears as he seized the curtain’s edge with a death grip. The metal brackets screeched as he flung the fabric aside to help to heal to— 

The racing thoughts, the frantic heartbeat, the— everything _stopped_ as he was faced with the chaos behind the curtain. Chaos and controlled desperation and— and it was familiar. Familiar how the room was already packed with other Romans worried about their fellow soldier, familiar how his sisters, Juniper and Moriah, were rushing around in a syncretic dance, ebbing and flowing between one another to administer treatments and faintly glowing hands without pausing to see who had parted the curtain. And the blood— 

The Roman male trembling on the bed was pale from blood loss. His eyes struggled to stay open, irises rolling back and forth, breathes strained and haggard. The wound on his side— from the shape looked as if a blade had recently been removed— was not that deep nor worryingly large, and yet he was bleeding out. Part of Will’s mind raced through possibilities— concluding with hemophilia— but for the first time in Will’s life, he was paralyzed by the sight before him. Half of him wanted to launch into the dance and begin executing the steps his mind was blaring at him to heal the wound, but the other half wanted to run or pass out or both. The inner turmoil left him unable to move, unable to think complete thoughts, unable to— 

The blood was clogging his senses, filling his nose and stirring up memories and traumas from that day when he’d lost _everything_.

So lost within his own mind, it took Will a moment to realize that the heart rate monitor had normalized and that an aura of relief had settled over the room. He didn’t realize until Moriah turned around, panting, drenched in sweat, but utterly beaming. The Roman on the bed was asleep, breathed even and leeched skin regaining color, and his companions were hugging one another then reaching for the daughters of Apollo, clapping them on the back with hysterical laughter and tear stained cheeks beneath eyes that twinkled with relief. 

Will never thought a saved life would ever fill him with such… dread. And that alone made him feel even worse. The frustration and anger and every indiscernible emotion in between overtook his senses but he was still unable to move. He was trapped, he was trapped he was— 

A large hand seized him by the arm and led him firmly from the room, up the staircase, and to the lounge-attic. It pulled him gently past the empty bean bag chairs and vacant makeshift cots that were bathed in light from the rows of windows along three of the four walls, moving instead for the back wall and the forest green couch pushed up against it. Will sunk into the cushions and leaned forward to brace his forearms on his knees. He was about to bury his face in his hands to better focus on his breathing but realized the rubber gloves were still on. Without thinking, he ripped them off to incinerate the claustrophobic feelings pushing at him from all angles, his breaths like broken glass.

When his mind cleared and pulse calmed enough for him to realize Frank was sitting beside him on the sofa and Piper remained standing before them, he couldn’t find it in himself to care that they saw the layers of wrapping around his hands. 

Frank eventually cleared his throat to break the silence once Will’s composure had mostly returned. “Are you okay? Do you need us to get you anything?”

The smaller demigod was trembling ever so slightly but pulled his hands away from his face and looked down at the bandages, wincing slightly as he clenched them into fists. An inaudible whisper trailed from his lips and when Frank asked softly, “What was that?”, Will clamped his eyes shut before opening them and looking over with a single tear cascading down the pane of his face.

“No.” One word, and yet his voice broke beneath it’s impact. 

Without another word, Frank pulled him close, massive arms enveloping him. Over the top of that blond crown of hair, Frank mouthed to Piper with wide eyes, _what should I do?_

He’d recognized the sheer terror on Will’s face downstairs, had seen it on Annabeth multiple times since everything happened, and instincts had taken over saying to remove Will from the environment. So Frank had, but now his instincts receded, faltering and he had no idea what to do now. Frank was well acquainted with loss— all demigods were no matter which Camp or descendants they hailed from— by which he knew everyone felt and dealt with grief differently. As such, Frank had no idea what Will was feeling. He missed Nico of course, and he had been forever changed by the short time journeying beside him. Frank was and forever would be grateful for those times and honored to have gotten the chance to meet him at all. But while Frank had lost a friend that he didn’t know as well as he would’ve liked but still genuinely cared for and held immense respect for.... Will had lost his soulmate. While Frank had respected and been in awe of Nico, Will had loved him. Had planned a future with him. And Frank didn’t know how to comfort someone who had lost so much— too much. Neither did Piper apparently, who shook her head in uncertainty and regret for not knowing how to help either. She shrugs equally at a loss as Frank continues to hold Will in a silent bear hug. 

_Maybe if I turned into an actual bear that could help?_ He thought to himself before immediately deeming that the stupidest idea he’d ever come up with.

Piper turned her attention to the other demigod in the room— if he could even be considered as such. The God Killer was standing at one of the many windows, arms crossed, wearing a thousand mile gaze as if a fisherman standing at the edge of a dock, peering into his domain. His posture was unnervingly calm. Not calm, Piper realized as she quieted her mind and allowed herself to feel, but still. Still as a tide moments before a tsunami. Waiting. Waiting. She didn’t have to wonder what for as she noticed his chin was tilted ever so slightly upward. Towards the sky.

Another moment of silence came and went during which Piper watched Percy close his eyes, open them, and cross the room in even, unhurried strides. That sickeningly gruesome wound on his leg must have been completely healed for such cadence. When he reached the sofa, blank sea green eyes met brown and a voice flat as a pane of glass said, “Move.”

Frank hadn’t heard Percy use that tone since threatening Larry after the funeral. He complied immediately, releasing Will and rising from the furniture entirely to stand at Piper’s side.

The Killer did not embrace the healer, but sat close enough to place a hand webbed with scars onto the demigod’s shoulder. He parted his lips to speak and despite herself, Piper leaned closer to hear, but Percy tensed and cut her a glare she hoped never to be on the receiving end of ever again.

Catching the warning and sensing the nonverbal demand for privacy, Frank gently pulled Piper away and didn’t let go until they were on the other side of the attic and seated beside one another on a cot— still able to see but as Percy turned back to Will, his voice was low enough that they couldn’t hear.

Piper didn’t realize she’d begun bouncing her knee or that she was staring intently towards the couch until Frank shifted on the cot to look at her and said somewhat sheepishly, “Uh, Piper? What are you doing?”

She stopped instantly and crossed her legs with what she hoped was a calm, relaxed smile and didn’t deceive the energy radiating throughout her. She might not be able to hear what was transpiring across the attic, but she could feel it, oh she could feel it. The sound of Will sniffling reached her ear and it took every ounce of self control to not perk up at the emotions that were carried within the sound. 

“Hm? Oh yeah, sorry,” she said a bit bashfully before turning her attention back and saying softly, “What do you think he’s saying?”

Frank shrugged, “Most likely filling him in on what Koss told us of Zeus’ involvement and about the extended council meeting tonight.” 

Whatever the hushed words were, Frank could tell by watching Will’s posture that they were both comforting and frightening the demigod. He did however get the sense that it was definitely most appropriate that the array of crushing news be delivered by Percy. Out of everyone in the world, Frank would be comfortable betting that Percy was the one person most able to relate to the degree of pain Will was enduring. When it seemed as though Percy was done, the two sat in silence for a few heartbeats and then Will began to speak just as low. Percy listened intently, a softness about him that Frank hadn’t realized how much he’d missed seeing. Percy was always the light of the Seven, the one that brought them all together, fought beside them, led them through horror after horror and did whatever it took to ensure each and every one of them made it through. Always the one with hope, never the one deterred by danger or terrible odds. Despite childhood trauma and the utterly morbid life of a demigod, despite losing his memory and landing in a once considered enemy camp, Percy had persevered— his lightheartedness, his mischievousness, his light had persevered. Prophecies had been fulfilled, battles and wars had been won, countless lives both demigod and mortal had been saved by his hand, his leadership. If ever there was a Hero of Olympus, it was Percy Jackson. And then, Tartarus. And then, the Parthenos. And then, power manifestation. And then, Olympus’ betrayal. And then and then and then. As if the universe itself was playing a game with Percy, one where it taunted _: how much can he take? How much, how much, how much until he_ breaks _?_ Frank shuddered at the thought, or he might have had Piper’s bouncing leg not resumed and began to shake the cot. This time he didn’t mention it, grateful to have something to focus on besides his own spiraling thoughts.

Movement caught his eye and Frank glanced across the room to where Percy was now getting up from the couch, turning with an offered hand to help Will rise. Much to Frank’s surprise, Will accepted the help and placed one of the mysteriously bandaged hands into Percy’s who was incredibly careful not to put unnecessary pressure on the gauze.

The two walked slowly over and Will gave a grateful nod and weak “thanks” to them all before continuing on for the stairs to return to the main level. Percy didn’t follow, instead halting before the two demigods who now stood up from the cot.

“He wants to go with us to the meeting, he’s gonna go tell Bethany then get ready to go. Apollo was here just before us.” After recounting snippets of what Will had told him, Percy added, “Right now, he’s the only Olympian that can be trusted.”

Without waiting for a response or reaction, Percy turned for the stairs. The three were silent until they exited the double doors of the medbay and had made it a few paces from the structure. Percy paused beneath a tree and looked up at the sun for a moment before lowering his gaze back to the two. It was an effort for Frank to hold those tidal eyes when the untanned line of skin where his camp necklace used to be before he’d snapped it was so apparent in the light. “We need to leave by sundown to get to Olympus in time. Anyone who’s going needs to be on the Argo by dusk.”

When he made to leave again, Frank blurted out, “Where are you going?”

But Percy merely threw a halfhearted wave over his shoulder and said without turning, “See you at dusk.”

Slightly exasperated and ridiculously on edge, Frank was at a loss for words but Piper watched the God Killer walk away and said, “Should we follow him?”

The strangely toned question sliced through Frank's rampant mind. “What?”

Piper blinked, her words faltering as if she’d caught herself and then shrugged it off. “I just mean… maybe we should keep an eye on him before the meeting? With the way he’s acting and all.”

The son of Mars shook his head, crossing his arms more so in a hug than anything. “Remember, he still doesn’t know how to maintain control of his powers. I think he might be acting distant because maybe he’s struggling against them or something. Come on, we should give him some space.”

When Piper didn’t move to follow but kept watching Percy walk for his cabin, Frank turned around and raised a brow. “Uh, Piper? You coming?”

She met his gaze and something flashed across her face so quickly he couldn’t read it, but before he could say anything she smiled and turned to join him, “You’re right, let’s go find the others.”

Despite the strangeness of Piper’s own behavior, Frank brushed it off because he itched to return to Hazel’s side. So with that and nothing more, the daughter of bonds and the son of wrath set off to find the rest of the Seven.

* * *

A fractured cry ripped through Reyna’s throat as she clawed her way out of a night terror. Clutching her ribs, her throat, her heart, with bared fingers as she fought for air, fought for her mind to reconnect with reality as she thrashed within the zippered sleeping bag.

She let it all wash over her— mind numbing fear, existential dread, cosmic horror— and willed her mind to withstand the barrage and her body to absorb every micron of phantom pain for what felt like the hundredth time. Because this is how it was. This was her new reality.

Each night was different enough for her never to get accustomed to the severity or breed of agony. Sometimes a replaying of waking up to find Nico dead, or of singing while clinging to his corpse, or of the many memories of Nico’s that she’d experienced as a result of sharing her strength while shadow traveling. This particular one was taking her longer to recover from to the point her ribs began to ache from how tightly she curled into herself.

The hotel and the glass jar— her mind had become a master of concocting lethal mixtures of memories and experiences; blurring the lines of time to make a cohesive piece. The hotel: but rather than crawling to a dead mother in Nico’s young form, it was Nico himself who lay, unmoving, among the rubble. The glass jar: rather than just a hotel, there had been no air as she’d crawled towards his lifeless frame in the dust and shards of stone. And Bianca was there, she was always in every single nightmare despite never having actually met the demigod turned huntress. She was always there. And she was always dead beside her brother. Every. Single. Time. 

And the night terrors always began just after whatever the disaster was— starting mere _seconds_ after. She was late, she was always too late to do anything to prevent the deaths. Just as it had been in real life when one moment she’d passed out on the infirmary floor from lending the last of her strength to Hazel to make the jump to the medbay to save Nico’s life, and the next moment she’d awoken to find that he was gone.

She hadn’t been there. She didn’t know and would never know if there was something, _anything_ she might’ve been able to do. A nagging, haunting sort of feeling told her that she was meant to be there, that she was meant to do something, to say something. That feeling never left her. It became clear when a thin stack of paper arrived one morning beside her in Annabeth’s scrawl exactly what that might have been. Annabeth had stopped Percy from trying to save Nico out of fear that he’d lose control. But from spending every day with Nico for a month that felt like a lifetime, Reyna knew better. She knew, she just _knew_ in the pits of her ruined heart that the bond between brothers, between God Killers was strong enough… that Percy could’ve done it. And if she hadn’t been such a weak disappointment, she would’ve been there to speak up and say that Nico was Percy’s focus, that Nico was Percy’s control. And Nico would still be alive. 

That alone kept her from trying to avoid the night terrors. She did nothing. Nothing to escape them, nothing to allow herself to heal. She did not deserve such things. And so, she stayed within the four walls of Annabeth’s bedroom.

She only left the room when her body demanded the restroom— ignoring the children of Athena’s concerned and curious and often awe filled glances. She only left the cabin once— for the funeral where she’d ignored the Roman’s that had once been her legion, her everything. She’d watched her best friend burn atop the pyre, watched the shroud of such precise and loving ornamentation vanish. She didn’t stay to watch any of the others, simply headed straight back into the cabin of wisdom. It felt sacrilege to occupy such a space, and she wouldn’t be surprised if the goddess herself appeared and cursed her for such blatant disrespect. 

Willingly, she subjected herself to the torture of the night terrors. Annabeth’s room was a cage of Reyna’s creation, a place where she did nothing but exercise or sleep despite knowing what awaited her each time. She’d climb into her sleeping bag on the floor that was smelling less and less like the forests of recent travel and though her body would tremble in fear laced anticipation, she would force her eyes to close, her body to still, and plunge into the night’s latest concocted terror.

Sometimes after the fourth consecutive hour of laying on her back staring at the ceiling, or during her tenth set of pushups for the day, the daughter of Bellona would be struck with a compulsion to leave the cabin and explore the Greek’s camp. Her training urged her to scout and do reconnaissance to memorize the layout, and her very DNA screamed at her to search for entry points, find out what she could of the Greeks, analyze potential threats and reunite with the Roman ranks. And her heart… it yearned to go out and look around, to see the place Nico had called home. 

But she didn’t. She never left. Exercise, sleep, exercise, sleep, eat when food was generously brought to her by a wide eyed camper— round and round the cycle went. Sleeping multiple times throughout the day, experiencing a night terror with each and every one. When she’d wake herself with screams, she’d exercise then either go back to sleep or lay on her back and think of nothing. If no one was going to imprison her, if no one was going to reprimand or punish her, then she’d take it upon herself. That was the Roman way. Discipline. Order. Honor. 

_You are a weapon,_ Lupa’s voice barked in her mind at least once a day, _weapons are no use dull. And weapons do not weep._

Reyna didn’t weep, not a single tear left her. Not since that day when she’d emptied herself of tears, likely for eternity. There were none left within her. 

Annabeth was rarely ever there and never seen, arriving when Reyna was asleep and leaving before she woke, the only evidence of the Greek’s presence being that the tucked sheets were in a different wrinkle pattern than the day before. But Reyna didn’t mind, better the daughter of Athena not to be frightened by her frequent screaming and disturbed sleep.

Finally calmed down after her brutal awakening, Reyna pushed herself up into a sitting position, leaning against the wall with her legs still within the sleeping bag. Her overheated body began to cool, helped by the frigid ring that she began to absentmindedly twist as her eyes glazed over and her breathing evened out. She didn’t resist the tugging at her memory.

_“You know, for most of my life… I’ve been…,” he shook his head, “I’ve been resisting the urge to… to end it. But I resisted, I survived not only Tartarus and everything else, but myself. I survived myself. And you can too, Reyna. And a future? Gods, Reyna you can have that too. You deserve it.”_

_“We both do.”_

_Nico smiled then, not a wide beaming grin, but one that spoke of warmth deep and pure._

_“There’s something I want you to have.” Nothing could have prepared her for watching Nico pull the skull ring off his index finger and extend it to her. She stared at the silver— worn and tarnished from all it had endured— then back to Nico._

_“I-I can’t take this, Nico. It’s… I can’t.” But she didn’t pull away as he took her hand and slid the ring onto her thumb. The metal was so cold she bit back a gasp. Though it quickly warmed, the weight a strange comfort. She looked down at it then back up to meet the gold flecks in Nico’s eyes. “Why are you giving this to me?”_

_“To remind you of this… To remind you of me.”_

_Something in his voice made her heart skip a beat. “Nico, this better not be a way of telling me you think you’re going to… that you’ll…,” she couldn’t get it out, couldn’t say the word._

_Nico’s voice was hoarse and he met her eyes. “I want to live, Reyna.” He shook his head with a soft smile, “I want to live.”_

  
Through the open window above her, sounds from the forest behind the cabin drifted through. And for the first time in all her life, Reyna hated the forest- no. She despised it. How could the birds still chirp, the leaves still crash in the breeze like waves, the light still spot the ground, illuminating the vegetation until it glowed? How was it that the forest remained unchanged, unaltered? How dare it. How dare it continue on with no sign of what had befallen the universe. How dare it mock her with its familiarity.

How dare it exist in a world where Nico did not. The ringing in her ear became that of a death knell. _Murder,_ at least that’s what one of Annabeth’s letters had revealed. Maybe she should be wanting revenge, raging for it. But what was the point? Zeus would never bleed enough, never suffer enough to atone for what he’d taken. It would never be enough. And what was the point in rage, in fury? It wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing would. Nothing would. And so, Reyna tilted her head back against the wall behind her, slid her eyelids shut, and called for the terrors to devour her whole.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello :)))  
> Next update will be *dramatic music* the meetingggg  
> I hope you like this one though, I had a ton of fun with it!
> 
> If you've given kudos or left a comment thank you so so so much it really means a lot <3  
> If you haven't and are just reading, thank you so much for sticking around <3  
> It's been quite the journey and I'm nowhere near finished yet ;)
> 
> TW: mention of Zeus' abusive tendencies (no actual actions)

Annabeth let out a slightly exasperated sigh as she paused outside the Hephaestus cabin, waiting for Jason and Hazel to make their way down the cabin steps. “Cabin, mess hall, Big House, training arena,” she muttered to herself as they neared. Jason’s lips pressed into a tight line, that thin scar contorting with the motion. “Where else could he be? The Argo?” 

“Maybe...but he hasn’t lit the fires yet. I think he would’ve done that before heading off to make preparations,” Jason mused and pointedly looked to the series of empty bonfires at the center of the field they now stood, ringed by the multitude of cabins and filled with demigods making their way to classes or assignments. Now that the Roman legions had departed, life at Camp had returned to a more sorrowful normal. His gaze returned to the daughter of Athena, her hair gleaming like a golden drachma in the midday light as his was likely doing too. “We’ve spent the better part of an hour searching, I don’t think he’ll mind missing out on this conversation.”

Annabeth nodded though her mind seemed somewhere else as she scanned the crowd. He caught how her attention snagged on a particular cabin but didn’t call her out on it. She’d been understandably on edge ever since making them all promise to keep the information from Percy. The tension she held in her body was noticeable and he often caught her rubbing at her neck and shoulders where he could bet her muscles were in tight knots. Even Piper had mentioned it to him the other night. 

Gods, Piper… his girlfriend’s behavior as of late was… confusing to say the least. He’d always prided himself on being able to understand those around him, it was a skill he attributed to gaining Praetorship and helped him to be a better leader. But recently Piper was like water to him— solidifying and evaporating seamlessly in that right when he felt he knew what she was thinking, he suddenly had no idea who was laying beside him in bed or standing next to him. But then again, these were strange and frightening times. No one was spared from the transformative impact of it all. And so, he didn’t mention Annabeth’s clear anxiety just as he hadn’t mentioned to Piper how little he felt he knew her lately. He did offer a small smile of warmth and support which seemed to calm her breathing slightly. She nodded again, this time more sure of herself.

“You’re right, let’s go.” 

With a gentle guiding hand at Hazel’s shoulder, Jason led the wraith-like girl and followed Annabeth through the campers and across the field. He ignored the chill beneath his palm from Hazel’s icy skin that he could feel even through her shirt. If she registered his touch, she didn’t show it nor did she tell him to stop. As the days drug on, Jason had noticed Hazel’s condition worsening— she’d been taking more lone walks in the forest beyond the barrier, and Frank had become so worried that he’d confided in Jason the other night that whenever he found her in the woods she was always surrounded by piles of shattered gemstone. Jason felt like each of his friends were on separate islands, enduring their own personal hells without being able to reach one another.

They pressed on and passed one of the wide stone cylinders of soot and ash and nothing more. Jason was struck with a jarring pang of cold emptiness and for reasons he couldn’t explain, suddenly missed the constant warmth of the flames usually held within. Sure Leo had been lighting them manually, but it wasn’t the same. Jason had never actually met the goddess Hestia before, though even from his first moments at Camp Half-Blood, he’d felt a presence in her flames even when she wasn’t physically present. As if the hearths, the braziers, the constant never extinguishing flames were a part of her. As if she left a piece of her essence wherever she went. He was beginning to wonder where she might have gone, why she had abandoned them, and whether or not her presence could soften the trauma and reunite them all when Annabeth stopped and waved. Jason tightened his hold on Hazel to keep her from running into Annabeth’s back then squinted into the light to see Frank and Piper making way to them.

“Where’s Percy?” Annabeth asked by way of greeting, concern stitching along her brow.

Frank nodded to Jason in silent thanks and took his place at Hazel’s side while Piper said, “Back to his cabin, not sure why. Frank and I voted not to follow.”

Annabeth rubbed at her shoulder and glanced over it with a look of longing but Jason’s attention was on his girlfriend who had, like a… like a _hound_ , fixated on the daughter of Athena. In the blink of an eye, she dropped the gaze that seemed almost exhilarated to smile and dip her head at one of her siblings who passed. 

Not having seen the intense stare Piper had given her, Annabeth turned back to the group and said to the daughter of Aphrodite with newfound focus, “Can you please try to find Leo? We haven’t had any luck and I really need to talk to him before we leave. We were on our way to see Reyna. Frank you can come too and fill us in on the visit with Will.”

“Percy wants to leave by sundown so we all need to be on the Argo by dusk,” Frank said.

Everyone nodded and that was that. Piper split off and Jason watched her go for a moment before following in silence, listening to Frank recount the events at the medbay. 

It was cowardly, but Jason was glad he hadn’t been there. He pulled at the wrapping around his forearm even though it hadn’t slipped— he’d applied it tightly enough this morning to prevent such a thing. Yes, he was glad he hadn’t been there. He doubted his presence would be welcome by the master healer, and honestly Jason wouldn’t blame him. But also, he didn’t think he could face Percy again. His nightmares had been overtaken by the God Killer with sea green eyes and Jason often found himself struggling to wake up, trapped by sleep paralysis that felt a lot like Percy seizing his pulse.

Jason was brought back to the present by the intruding eyes of the massive owl carved into the door of Cabin Six. He tilted his head back to the sky and loosed an uneasy breath to steel his nerves then squared his shoulders and fell back into place at Annabeth’s flank.

Other than visiting while she was unconscious in the medbay then across the pyre flames at the funeral, Jason hadn’t seen Reyna since she and Nico first departed from the Argo, strapped to the Parthenos for the very first time. A lifetime ago. 

Jason couldn’t even take in the beauty of the cabin’s structure— with its marble staircase that split into two halfway up, the many bookshelves sunken into the walls, and the intricacies of the arched hallways and domed ceiling high above— he was too occupied with keeping his composure and not falling prey to the spiraling thoughts of just how much Reyna could have changed since last they spoke.

The cabin was silent, each child of Athena in quiet observance of the group that made way to Annabeth’s room. When they reached the door, Annabeth’s fist hovered above the wood for a heartbeat and then she knocked. After connecting eyes with the others, she nodded to herself, gripped the handle, and pushed through.

_Her hair is down_

That was the first thing Jason noticed. Not that the Praetor of New Rome was sitting on the ground with her legs within the folds of an earth stained sleeping bag and her head tilted against the wall beneath an open window, not that her eyes were closed, not that her posture was immaculate even in such a position, and not that the air held a slight tang of sweat despite the open window and fresh air spilling in on a gentle breeze, no— it was her hair that caught his attention. 

Jason didn’t think he’d ever seen her without the signature plait. He knew it was almost like a ritual for her—the structure and order to it, the polished finish and perfect position, not a single strand out of place. A representation of how she led New Rome. But now it was free and flowing with the slightest pattern of loose waves, laying across her chest and shoulders; sleep tousled and untamed.

His oldest companion, his first friend, opened her eyes and Jason was faced with someone he never thought he’d see again. Because the Reyna that sat here before him seemed nothing more than a grown up version of the brutal, broken girl she’d been when they’d first met. Moments ago he’d been wondering how much she might have changed, and yet here he saw the opposite. As if she’d reverted back to a time before traveling with Nico, before meeting him, before defying the Roman order to find the Argo, before becoming close with Jason at Camp Jupiter. Back to a time when she’d had walls stronger than an ancient fortress around her heart and mind. He knew she and Nico had grown close during their travels— he’d seen the tears in her eyes through that iris message— but for this to have happened… He thought back to Frank coming to his cabin with a bruised arm telling of how Reyna had reacted to waking and finding out what had happened. 

Jason had come to terms long ago that Reyna and he would always be friends, but that she would never open up to him fully. He’d made peace with that and they’d created a friendship based on respect and trust, a true Roman soldier type relationship, but he’d always hoped that one day she would find someone who would help her tear down those walls. Looking at those cold, unforgiving eyes, Jason got the sense she’d done just that. And what had he done? He’d taken that from her. A lump grew in Jason’s throat. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes any longer and dropped his gaze to the floor like a coward. 

In the heavy silence, Reyna lifted the top fold of her sleeping bag and rose on legs that ached from the morning’s exercise and the endless thrashing in her sleep. Frank found himself straightening his own posture instinctually as the woman who would always be a Praetor to him squared her shoulders and stood in front of the window. The gentle breeze played at the loose strands of hair and the sun set the top of her dark hair aglow as if she wore a halo. 

If angels were real, Frank had no doubt they’d look just like Reyna— warrior in every right, eyes cold from all they’d seen, presence too pure to be considered regal. His arm had healed from where she’d bruised it to the bone, but ambrosia could do nothing to rid him of the memory of Reyna singing as she cradled Nico’s body and wept. By Roman standards, by Lupe’s standards, he knew such things would be considered weakness, but to Frank, seeing the perfect statuesque warrior succumb to such displays of emotion only proved to Frank her greatness. It was the first time that he’d ever seen the human side of Reyna. That humanity was nowhere to be seen now. As if she had drained it all in the medbay that night.

Annabeth lifted a hand to rub at her neck but clenched it into a fist beside her instead. She forced herself to hold Reyna’s gaze and quiet the voice that was currently screaming out all she’d taken from the Roman, all the devastation she’d caused to result in such coldness pouring from the demigod. Instead, she swallowed thickly and spoke of their call to Persephone— information she’d not included in that morning’s letter— though she left out the part about offering the queen of the underworld her soul. Reyna listened as unflinchingly as Hazel who stood a step away from Frank.

“The plan is for everyone to meet on the Argo by dusk and head straight to Olympus.” 

“Piper, Percy, and I visited Will just now and he’s going to join us. Also, the only god we can fully trust right now is Apollo,” Frank added then filled her in on what Percy had told he and Piper after speaking with Will.

Annabeth nodded, her tone sullen, “There’s no way to tell if Persephone heard Percy’s message or if she’ll even show.”

A silence befell the group as they allowed Reyna to process the flood of information. Jason said nothing, finally gaining the courage to lift his gaze from the floor, only to realize Reyna was staring at him. No, not him… but the bandage on his arm and the eagle beneath. No emotion altered her features or hinted at her thoughts, as if spending so much time with the Parthenos had partially transformed her into a statue.

Annabeth cleared her throat. “Did… did Nico ever tell you anything about her? Percy and I have met Hades a few times before, but none of us have ever even seen the Queen—only Will, I think.”

Reyna leaned back against the window ledge and began to twist the ring, allowing her inner wounds to leak memories.

_“Is it true? All those things people say about her power mutating beyond that of her original ‘goddess of spring’ abilities?”_

_A wicked grin flashes onto Nico’s lips. “The gods have always underestimated her”.... “In my mind she’s always been more of a manifestation of dark and light rather than a goddess. I think it just took her awhile to realize that… took meeting my father to realize that.”_

_“Why does she stay so secluded? I heard she hasn’t left the Underworld since the wedding?”_

_“The Underworld is her home more than fields and meadows ever were. While it’s true she hasn’t gone to Olympus since then, she does leave on occasion to roam around the surface world; she’s just really good at concealing herself.”_

_“I think I’d like to meet her someday.”_

_To her surprise, Nico lets out a burst of laughter. “Oh I don’t know if you could handle her. Imagine Percy’s rebellion and flair for the dramatic with barely tamed rage and power that would make you weep.” He looks up to the speckled sky as if he can see it all play out on the canvas of stars. But his expression turns more serious and he lowers his gaze to hers. “But, Reyna, if she ever does step foot on Olympus—_

“Run,” Reyna said to Annabeth, to them all. She stopped twisting the ring and crossed her arms.

_“Run and don’t look back. Because she made a vow to herself never to return and even I can’t imagine what could get her to break it.”_

Mind and body, Reyna felt raw. She couldn’t keep her nose from scrunching in the barest of snarls as she said flatly, “He made me promise to run if she ever returned to Olympus.”

Annabeth nodded, and Reyna felt Jason and Frank watching her— knew they were all aware she was keeping information to herself. None of them called her out. Reyna knew she was being childish and petty, but Nico had trusted her with this knowledge— knowledge only Will and Percy knew besides her, and she would sooner die than betray Nico’s trust in her. Even if he was gone.

“Will you join us?” Jason made himself ask.

“No.” 

Her answer was not out of fear of Persephone, but rather shame. She could not face the mother and father of Nico. She could not be in their presence. The very act would be unthinkably disrespectful. A mockery. They would berate her, rightfully so, because who had gotten to spend the last month with their son? Not his friends, not his found family, not his brother, not his soulmate… but her. It had been her. Reyna did not forgive herself for such injustice so how could they?

Jason opened his mouth as if he might try and convince her to go, but Annabeth held up a hand to stop him. She knelt down to grab the empty plate from Reyna’s delivered breakfast before rising with the tilt of her head.

“I’ll fill you in as soon as we return.” And with that, she opened the door and disappeared down the hall. Jason fidgeted with the edge of his bandaging as if debating whether or not to speak but Reyna made the decision for him by lowering herself back down to the floor, returning to her seated position against the wall. With a clenched jaw he gave a tight smile and followed after Annabeth. Frank reached out for Hazel to direct them out as well, but froze at the sound of Reyna’s voice.

“I need to speak with her.”

“Oh… alone?” 

Reyna could clearly see the reluctance in him to leave his girlfriend’s side, but when she nodded, he gave one last look to Hazel and stepped out with a rigid bow reminiscent of the legion she once led. 

He shut the door behind him softly and she listened for his steps to fade off before clearing her throat.

“Hazel?” The demigod turned and slowly, slowly looked down. Reyna had seen this before— the spaced out expression and glassy eyes that flicked about, avoiding Reyna’s own. Nico had often looked just the same when coming out of a night terror. She was even beginning to get familiar with the sensation herself and knew on a small scale what it was like to feel robotic in her daily routine— what it was to feel barred from clear thought and solid emotion. 

Reyna leaned forward and took one of Hazel’s hands into her own, increasing the pressure in hopes of grounding her. Gently, she guided the demigod to join her on top of the sleeping bag. Hazel blinked a few times and turned Reyna’s hand over, running a tentative finger across the contours of the skull. The silver gave a chilling throb and the corner of Hazel’s lip twitched in a faint smile of recognition.

“I have something to give you,” Reyna said, her voice hoarse from disuse. Without removing her hand from Hazel’s strengthening grip, Reyna pivoted slightly to slide her free hand beneath the pillow and sleeping bag. The chill was nearly unbearable, it bit at her flesh and sent tremors down her bones as if saying _wrong wrong wrong_. But she withstood the discomfort enough to pull it out. Twisting back to face Hazel, she placed it down between them with great reverence.

Hazel’s eyes— no anywhere near as glassy or detached— went wide, mouth parted slightly. “I-I can’t take this.”

“Only a child of Death can wield it. Besides, he’d want you to have it.”

“How did you… how did…,” Hazel’s mind was not accustomed to producing clear thoughts after so many days of chronic dissociation and it took her a moment to process the overwhelming nature of it all. Releasing Reyna’s hand, Hazel dug the heels of her palms into her eyes and took a few deep breaths to steady, to ground. And then— “I thought it was lost on the battlefield?”

“It was. It only arrived to me this morning.” 

“Arrived?”

Reyna reached back under her pillow and blindly sifted through the many letters from Annabeth to find a smaller card. “Yes, with this note from…,” she withdrew the note and squinted at the unrefined scrawl, “...someone by the name of Koss?”

Hazel knew that name somehow, she’d heard it recently. Everything was so foggy, so unclear but with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows she tried to focus. “Koss is… he’s a son of Hecate.” She looked up at Reyna, swallowing back the immense amounts of rage she’d been suppressing all this time that were fighting to resurface to ask, “Why did a child of Hecate have Nico’s sword?”

Reyna paused, having detected the barest inflection in Hazel’s voice as if a single thread of a sweater catching, and then gestured to the note. “According to this, he searched for and cleaned it himself. He apologies, saying he wasn’t sure who to bring it to given…,” she faltered out of respect before finishing, “... given your recent state.”

“Oh.” 

“He meant no disrespect, even says it right here. He was just concerned for you, worried seeing it might worsen your condition.”

The rage tucked back safely within her and Hazel wrung her hands in her lap with a curt nod. “No, that makes sense. If I remember right, he’s always liked Nico. I don’t think my brother ever noticed.” Hazel was shocked to feel a genuine smile blossom on her lip. She lowered her head, embarrassment washing over her. _Gods_ , her emotions were all over the place after so long untethered.

Thankfully, Reyna didn’t make mention though she did lower the card and draw her forearms atop criss-crossed legs as she began to twist the silver skull ring on her thumb.

“So will you?”

“What? Take it?”

Reyna nodded then realized they were both looking at the blade, not one another, and vocalized, “Yes.”

“I-I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re a child of—”

“No, I know. That’s not what I mean.”

“Oh,” Reyna’s features softened in understanding. The fingers twisting her ring halted for a moment and she looked down at it fondly. “I felt the same way when he gave me this."

“How—,” Hazel began before stopping herself. Reyna could see her receding back into herself but she urged her to continue. Hazel took a breath to collect her thoughts and tried again.

“How are you even able to stand wearing it? Being constantly reminded?” Another grounding breath, then after an almost weary glance at the blade, “And how… how can you justify to yourself that you deserve it?”

Reyna knew the questions weren’t rude jabs at her, but rather more inward facing. And they were all things she asked herself on the daily. Parting her lips to attempt a response, Reyna hesitated and instead removed the ring from her finger, placing it delicately beside the blade. The two demigods— warriors, Romans, women who had seen and done too much in their short lifetimes— took in the two objects resting atop the fabric that smelled of sweat and earth and adventure.

“It does hurt to wear sometimes, I’ll admit. I look at it sometimes and get the urge to rip it off and throw it out the window.”

“But you haven’t.”

“No. No, and I never will.” Reyna leaned back against the wall behind her, finding comfort in its stability. She didn’t take her eyes from the sacred objects. “And to answer your question, I don’t deserve it. Not his trust, not his friendship, not his ring. Even in death I am unworthy of all he did for me. We are all in eternal debt to him.”

Hazel remained in silence though she brought her arms around herself in a loose embrace.

“Through Tartarus this blade and this ring have traveled. Through battle and tragedy… they have endured all. Let that be the reminder, Hazel, that you can too.” Reyna leaned forward one last time to retrieve the ring— her ring. She could feel Hazel’s eyes tracking her movement as she slipped the skull into place. Reyna then gestured encouragingly to the sword as if to say _your turn_. 

“On days you can’t bring yourself to rise, know that the legacy is not yet finished. This blade lives on, and so must you.”

“So must _we_ ,” Hazel amended. Reyna nodded with a tight smile and watched in silence.

Hazel reached out hesitantly and lifted it up with outstretched fingers to lay across her lap. And with a hand that trembled not of otherworldly cold but of remembrance, Hazel ran her palm along the void-like surface. Pure stygian… it was beautiful. 

Like a pane of polished shadows; like a sliver of the darkness between the stars of a midnight sky. For all it had seen, not a single scratch mared the surfaces of its blade, not a single dent or deformity along its eternally sharpened edges. No, not a single mark on that blade, for the history rest in its hilt. The darkest shade of leather she’d ever seen made up the grip in a braided wrap both nicked and worn down in places. A simple pommel made up the end, it’s rounded surface full of deep gash-like scratches and even missing a small chunk of material. 

Holding her breath, Hazel wrapped her right hand around the leather bound grip and released said breath. The balance was immaculate, the sword itself none too heavy, and though the worn places on the grip had been formed by a hand larger than her own, she felt a comfort in that. Almost like her brother was holding onto it as well— guiding her, assuring her. She didn’t shy away from the smile and breathy cry of relief and, quite possibly, joy.

“It suits you,” Reyna said. “He… he really would be proud.”

“Thank you, Reyna.”

“You should be thanking Koss, he’s the one that found it.”

Hazel shook her head and set the sword back onto her lap. “No, I should be thanking you. You brought him home to me— to us. It wasn’t you who failed him.”

The change in her demeanor was swift, and Reyna watched as the younger demigod’s smile slipped away, her focus becoming more distant. And though the words hanging in the air between them were like needles to her heart, Reyna ignored them all and placed a hand on the back of Hazel’s.

“Hey, let’s not talk about that right now, okay?” 

Hazel blinked and Reyna watched as she tightened her grip around the swords hilt, rubbing at the textured leather braids. Grounding herself, Reyna realized and waited patiently. After several moments, the life came back to Hazel’s face and muttered an apology but Reyna put an immediate stop to that.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Now,” Reyna began in an effort to change the subject, “are you ready for the council meeting tonight?”

“Am I ready to hear the Olympians support my brother’s murderer? Am I ready to sit and watch them vote on whether Jason, Percy, and I will be punished for being born? No. No, and I’m not going.” 

It was a simple thing, the famished thirst for vengeance within her but she embraced it, tethered herself to it, rather than let herself drift away.

Reyna was about to say she understood but Hazel sliced through her thoughts with something that shocked her into silence.

“The day I felt him pass, my father visited me.”

“What?”

“I told him to bring Nico back. He said he couldn’t.” She clenched and unclenched her palm around the leather grip, focusing on how the ridges of the braids pressed into her skin to stay present. “So I told him to leave.”

Reyna didn’t know what to say. 

“Have you ever seen Death cry?”

She shook her head, at a complete loss for words. Of all the things Nico had told her about his father, a tendency to show such emotion was not one.

“There were tears in his eyes. He said he was sorry, that the only way to get him back was to open the gates of Elysium and he refused to do that, he refused to endanger all those spirits safe within its walls.”

_I don’t care_

That’s what she’d said to him.

_I don’t care_

And from the bottom of her heart, the deepest chasms of her soul, the thinnest swaths of her essence, she meant it. 

Perhaps not a god nor a God Killer, but she was Hazel Levesque and when the time was right, she would have her vengeance. Hecate had taken her brother. The goddess could take Hazel’s powers too for all she cared— because powers or no, Hazel would bring down each phase of the three faced goddess and then their beloved Spire. Powers or no.

Even if she had to tear them apart with her bare hands. Pane by gemstone pane. Limb by immortal limb.

As she watched in silence, Reyna tried to decide which was more unsettling; Hazel the untethered ghost…. Or Hazel, Princess of Death, running a palm along the impenetrable darkness with the faintest of smiles.

* * *

Leo needed dinner, a universe where gods didn’t exist, and a cold shower— not necessarily in that order, though he wasn’t picky. 

After hours of running around Camp— to each training site, cabin, bonfire, hearth, the Big House and mess hall— the last brazier was finally lit. Lowering his tingling hand from beside the wooden post now flickering with full-bodied flame, Leo bent over, hands bracing against his legs to catch his breath.

“You good, Leo?” 

Still folded over, he jerked his head in the direction of the voice and smiled as he bat the air in a wave. The voice belonged to Brooklyn, a child of Demeter not much younger than Leo who he’d had archery lessons with what felt like lifetimes ago. Leo had learned two things during that class: that despite being able to calculate the aerodynamics of an arrow in his head, he was terrible at archery because he could never get himself to stop flinching at the snapping sound of the bow so close to his face that reminded him a little too much of his time with Teresa under foster care. And the second, was how much he loved strawberries. Brooklyn would fill their pockets on the way in from the fields which they worked in just before class, and sneak them to Leo behind the instructor’s back. Leo wished life could go back to being so simple.

“Never better,” Leo called out. “Say hi to the plants for me!” 

Brooklyn threw an unsavory hand gesture over a denim suspender clad shoulder as they headed off for the fields. With his breathing finally back to normal, Leo chuckled, a smile lingering as he stretched both arms above his head. His back gave a satisfying crack and his shoulders ached as the tension released. Leo let out a sigh and nodded to a small group of Demeter kids coming back in from their shift, pants of their overalls coated with dirt from kneeling in the earth and sweat gleaming on their brows. They smiled back and waved before heading off most likely for dinner and a shower just like Leo was yearning for.

He took in the trail of braziers leading to this last one he stood before at the northern edge of Camp with a sense of fulfillment. Sure it was barely midday and the sun still shone bright, but with Elsin forcing Lou Ellen to rest after her visit to Olympus and allow the gash across her eye to heal, Leo knew it would take him hours to do it all himself so he’d decided to get started early. Though she couldn’t summon flame, her magic kept him from fatiguing so quickly and she was able to charm the holders themselves to prevent extinguishment. Hopefully the last ones she’d placed that still smelled of strange herbs would hold through the night. 

He enjoyed Lou Ellen's company, he couldn't have kept the pyres going throughout the mass funeral without her, and she even laughed at his jokes on their nightly ritual of setting the fires. But actually doing it… igniting the empty spaces… it unsettled him to the very core to be putting his flames where Hestia's belonged.

Despite being the only firebringer in centuries, Leo’s lineage meant that his flames were the essence of a forge. Scorching hot to create and destroy— both tool and weapon. To an untrained eye, Hestia’s would look the same, but Leo knew they couldn’t be more different. The goddesses flames were not meant for battle. They were warmth and companionship, meant to dance and flourish within the frame of a hearth or bonfire. To foster peace and unity and love. They were sustenance and life, comforting and maternal. A voice in the back of his mind had been nagging for days in indiscernible whispers. Something was wrong, he just knew it. Hestia would never leave them so empty, so unprotected from themselves. Something was wrong. And Leo was going to find out what.

The promise brought a small amount of comfort though for now, he needed to get cleaned up and make his way to the Argo to make sure everything was in order to depart for the meeting tonight. The thought of reuniting with Festus even if it had only been a little over a week put a smile on his face. 

After wiping a hand on his pants, he reached into his toolbelt and took a deep drink from the water bottle he’d summoned. Burnout gnawed at his bones, pulled at his essence— with it, exhaustion and extreme thirst. The toll of using his powers so much for so many days on end without proper time to rest was a heavy weight but one that he was more than willing to silently bear. He had told no one of the lingering, ever worsening burnout for multiple reasons, the most selfish of which was for the sere fact that lighting the fires gave him something to do. A specific task that he had control over, a problem that he himself could fix. Something to funnel his energy into. Another reason was that it provided a reasonable excuse for keeping distance from the rest of the Seven; from Will and Reyna too. Without a way to help, he felt impossibly awkward around and twice as helpless. Soul bonds, emotions, love, betrayal, loss… there was no tool from his belt that he could summon to repair such things. He felt useless around them. 

Returning the now empty water bottle to his pouch, Leo set off back the way he’d come. With each step that brought him closer to the heart of Camp the anxious energy rose within him.

Hazel had been like a ghost, an unsmiling and glassy eyed ghost, since that day. The shattered cry she’d let out when Nico’s spirit passed through her haunted Leo in his sleep every night since. Annabeth had been increasingly hostile towards Chiron though Leo had a feeling it was more so her projecting, and the centaur took every verbal lashing; when Frank hadn’t been helping the Romans to depart he was definitely following Hazel around, making sure she ate and slept, or tracking her on those mysterious and increasingly frequent walks into the forest. They’d often emerge from the woods with her hands wrapped in cloth and a piece of Frank’s shirt torn off. And Percy… 

Leo was not too proud to admit that Percy was beginning to terrify him. A descriptor he’d wrestled with for days now, not wanting to associate it with the lighthearted, kind spirited demigod unbreakable in his resolve and ability to foster hope even in the darkest times. But Leo was terrified. Terrified of the eyes that promised death, of the nearly indiscernible looks of discomfort at that strange power that Leo knew he was struggling to contain. Terrified of that power itself and the lack of control Percy had on it. To Leo, Percy was a ticking time bomb. He wanted the old Percy back. He wanted his friend back, the demigod who was so alike to his own energy and affinity for mischief and quick thinking. He and Percy— before all of this at least— had a lot in common. Leo was energetic with a spark that drew people to him, but Percy was energetic with purpose, with an ability to bring people together. A unifier, a leader. 

After sorting out the tension between them regarding Percy’s past with Calypso, Leo had looked up to Percy in a way he’d never idolized another living being. The only competition being Nico. Nico who he’d been fascinated by. Willing to put cause above self, others above self— to Leo, Nico was selfless as a machine. It was always a massive comfort to have Nico around; he had been a physical representation of endurance. And Leo had believed in him, he really had. 

_“If anyone can do this, it’s you. I know we all joke about never betting against Annabeth, but I’d rather volunteer for latrine duty at Camp than ever bet against you.”_

_Nico laughed under his breath, “Thanks, Leo.”_

Leo would gladly give up Fonzies for the rest of his life if it meant things could go back to the way they’d been. Styx, he’d give anything for just one more day on the Argo with the Seven and Nico aboard.

Finally to the copper steps of Cabin Nine, Leo placed the water bottle back into his belt and pushed his back into the door. There weren’t many campers inside, it was a busy time of day, but the workshop floor was its usual mess. Well, to anyone not born of Hephaestus it would look that way— scrap paper, various pieces of metal and wood, tools of every make and model all strewn about; worktables pushed every which way with stools missing or covered in gears or bottles of oil; retractable cords for power tools hanging from the ceiling; blueprints and diagrams taped to the windows and brick walls— yes, to anyone else this would look like chaos. But to Leo and all who inhabited the space, it was perfect. Being innovators with thousands of thoughts and ideas and enough spontaneity to make a mortal’s head spin, every inch of the cabin was devoted to their projects— the upper level housed metal melting furnaces, stuff for welding, and enough woodworking equipment for a construction company, while the main level was more of a design studio and space for assembly and prototyping. The basement— where the sleeping quarters were hidden— was the only place in the cabin where work was not allowed; the only place where tidiness and a normal person’s definition of ‘organized’ was enforced. 

He picked his way over to his designated slice of organized chaos, passing by his siblings and making quick words of encouragement or interest in their designs. As cabin leader his place should be at the very center of them all as was tradition, but he still didn’t feel much like a cabin leader so had kept to the back. He still wasn’t used to anyone coming to him with their issues and it was overwhelming sometimes since he wanted to help them all. He preferred doing rather than leading and he hoped every day that it didn’t show. He wasn’t used to being relied on. He missed the Argo, missed the constant peril and danger and having to think on his feet. His constant energy wasn’t a hindrance there, but here... he felt the walls of the cabin pressing in. He missed feeling the sea salt breeze tussling his hair and the constant motion of wooden planks beneath his feet over waves of air or sea. He missed the whir of gears and hiss of pipes, missed the clicking of Festus and feeling like he was making a difference. 

With a shake of his head, Leo slumped onto the wood stool and put his head down onto the table, bringing his arms up too. After a few deep breaths, he peeked out from within the safety of his cocoon and rested his chin onto his crossed forearms to look at the multitude of papers full of frantically scribbled out calculations. Tension, forces of normal and shear, limits of the human body that he’d consulted Will about long ago. These papers, all of them, were for the Parthenos harness. The original diagrams and written work that he’d raced back to the Argo for shortly after Nico’s death were haphazardly mixed in with the newer calculations. Physics and static equilibrium textbooks also were among the fray, as well as strips of leather and metal fasteners. 

It didn’t make sense. No matter how many times he reworked it all— the rigid body systems, the free body diagrams, the distributed loads— the results all agreed with his original solutions. He’d consulted with the textbooks, with Harper from the Athena cabin in the mess hall yesterday during breakfast and Bethany during dinner, and with every single one of his siblings. And his heart dropped every time he was told the numbers made sense, that they were correct. But they weren’t. They couldn’t be. 

The frustration began to rise again and Leo put his forehead back down on top of the papers themselves, clutching either side of his head with sweaty palms and fingers deep in the curls of his untamed hair.

In all his life, the only thing he could ever rely on completely, entirely were numbers. When used correctly, numbers _never_ lied. So how was it that they could be right, and yet he be so wrong? How could it be that the harness was perfectly crafted, and yet beneath the blood and shadows, Nico’s skin had been marked so thoroughly bruises so dark they’d looked black?

When Leo had seen the son of Hades laid out on the mattress in the medbay, he’d nearly lost all motor functions and collapsed upon coming face to face with what he’d done. Thick crimson rivers flowing atop the deathly pale skin splotched with darkness. Because his harness, his invention had _hurt_ Nico. His final days had not been lived, but endured in agony. 

Nico had been in pain long before landing on Camp Half-Blood’s soil after that final jump. Because Leo. Because of his designs, his calculations, his handiwork.

 _It means his bones are breaking,_ he remembered Will say to Reyna over that group iris message. And Leo had had to watch tears fall from the famously emotionless Praetor’s eyes, knowing he was the cause. 

Leo removed his hands and rolled his head to the side. Not for the first time, he got the intense urge to burn it all— every paper, every page. Despite the burnout and begging from his essence for a chance to replenish, Leo felt himself seriously considering it. 

_… his bones are breaking…_

Head still on the table, he lifted a hand lazily to the nearest paper. Experimentally, he gave it a flick. The edge where he’d made contact smoldered but didn’t catch. 

_… bones are brea—_

“Leonidas Valdez! Where in the hell have you been??”

The son of Hephaestus startled so violently that he nearly capsized the stool. “Uh, lighting the fires.”

Piper threw her hands in the air as she stormed over to him, exasperation clear on her every feature. “Where, on another planet? I’ve been trying to track you down for like an hour.”

“Well there’s kinda a lot if you haven’t noticed…,” Leo said with a smirk. It did the trick and Piper let out a long sigh.

“Uh huh, whatever you say.” She glanced at the strange symbols and values in Leo’s surprisingly neat handwriting covering the multitude of graph paper on the unsurprisingly unorganized desk. “Unless all this is really important, Annabeth sent me to get you. She wants to fill you in on everything with Reyna and Will before we leave.”

Leo rose, wiping his hands on his jeans and with one last forlorn look at the contents of his desk, he jerked his chin. “Nope, sounds good. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find her? Ya know, since you’re the master demigod tracker now.”

Piper made to give him a playful shove, but latched onto his arm instead when she tripped over a scrap metal plate someone had thrown on the ground. 

“No wiping out ‘till after tonight, okay McLean?” 

“Who says there’s gonna be an ‘after’?”

“Don’t come at me with your technicalities.”

“Airhead.”

“Beauty Queen.”

“Why thhhank youuu, dahling,” Piper drawled like an old Hollywood actress. The two pushed out into the midday light, arm in arm. Despite what horrors the next few hours were sure to bring, Leo hadn’t felt so carefree in months.

* * *

Olympus was many things, but a home it had never been. Not to Artemis. Not when her own mother had forbidden her from ever calling it such.

The goddesses sandaled feet padded softly against the marble floors as she made her way through corridor after corridor. The palace was a hive of activity, minor gods scurrying about, nymphs just the same, all working to prepare for the main event. Many of the Twelve were not yet arrived but she’d been informed by a startlingly lithe nymph upon her own arrival that they would be soon. 

As she navigated the palace’s ridiculously outlandish halls, Artemis shouldered the bow and quiver strapped across her more so to remind herself that she was not alone. She hated few places more than the palace of the gods. 

Whenever visiting for council meetings or mandatory summons by her father, she always got the feeling her mother was counting down the seconds until she would leave. Never “It’s so good to see you, my daughter”, or “Oh how I’ve missed you”, or “How were your travels? Your hunters?” from the Queen of the Gods. No. It was always glares of vile disgust, that delicate porcelain chin held high to look down a slender nose as if the presence of her only daughter was a spot of soot on those immaculate layers of fabric that always wrapped her in a way that made Artemis pity the nymph handmaids who dressed her.

As if she’d summoned the wretched monster by thought alone, Artemis turned a corner only to find that Hera herself stood in the corridor speaking harshly to a fawn. _Goddess of the Hunt,_ Artemis found herself reciting, _you are Goddess of the Hunt, you fell beasts and venture the planet, you are brave, strong, resilient. There is nothing she can do to you._

The ichor in her veins wasn’t soothed by the attempt at confidence and her pulse became erratic. Her hand went instinctively to the strap of her quiver, the string of her bow and then she got her legs to work. She turned around without a word, retreating down a different passage like a skittish rabbit. The leather strap groaned beneath her fist that clenched tighter and tighter. It was ridiculous, the fear she had of her mother. The control Artemis granted a figure who had denounced themselves from her life. 

What a foul thing it was to yearn for respect, love even, from a mother that would never give it. What a childish, mortal thing to want even after centuries of life. But no. There would be no love. Hera despised her, she knew that. She knew it in her mind even though her heart still wept. The old wound flared. It was almost as painful as what she would do tonight. What she was going to vote in favor of— and the brother such a vote would betray. 

But she would do it. She would betray the other half of her soul, endure the agony of his loss of trust and the love he’d doubled to make up for their lack of mother. She would do it all and more if it meant protecting her hunters. For them, she would sell her spirit to Tartarus himself.

She fought to calm her mind and nerves. There was no room for weakness, not tonight when Persephone could make an appearance. Artemis didn’t know what she’d do if that happened. It had been at least a decade since they’d last seen one another and though the separation had been her suggestion and had ended on good terms, Artemis didn’t know if she would be able to bare seeing Persephone’s face as she voiced her vote tonight. Betraying her brother was one thing, but— 

A bellowed laugh drifted into the hall by way of an open door, shattering her spiraling thoughts. Artemis slowed her pace as she passed. Zeus met her eye and gave an eclectic smile as he turned for a forest nymph to reach the last few buttons of his grey tunic. 

When he’d sought her out a few days prior, he’d confided how proud he was of her efforts and accomplishments with the Hunt, and how he shared her anger and confusion towards Hera’s cold resentment. He’d explained in great detail his reasonings for the past actions against Apollo as well as everything he’d done to protect the demigods from the God Killer, Nico di Angelo. Having known Bianca well, the news of Nico’s death had deeply saddened her, but Zeus granted clarity. It wasn’t often that she agreed with him, but the more he’d spoken, the more merit his actions had. 

The conversation floated around in her mind as she paused long enough to dip her head in the slightest of bows and smile back at her father. The warmth he returned with lingered even as she continued on down the hall towards her own chambers. And for the briefest moment, barely a heartbeat, Olympus felt like home.

* * *

_“Do you think it’s a good idea that he even go? He still hasn’t learned to control himself, what if he… I don’t know… what if he tries to kill Zeus on the spot?”_

Leo’s question clung to Annabeth as she climbed the seafoam painted steps. It was one she’d been mulling over as well. After filling Leo in on everything they’d lingered in each other’s company and voiced their multitude of worries about all that could go wrong at the meeting tonight. Eventually he’d caught on to the fact that Annabeth was trying to avoid this much smaller but equally important meeting and threatened her with a lecture on fuel cells and thermodynamic principles if she didn’t go.

And now, thanks to Leo and his knowing of her supreme dislike for such topics, Annabeth was knocking on the door to Cabin Three.

No answer.

She tried again, a bit harder only to discover the door was actually open as it swung beneath her knuckles. 

“Percy?” She called out softly, then again louder. Still nothing.

Hesitantly, she nudged the door open wider and, after a moment of intense listening, slipped through. Silence greeted her. Silence and what could be described only as a crime scene. 

Large crimson drops stained the floor in a bath from his bed leading out towards the dock, the bed itself was a mess of scattered sheets and pillows splotched a deep red. The fountain at the room’s center had a single red handprint on it and several fissure lines along its stonework.

Jason had told her that Percy had reacted badly to Piper and Clovis’ forced slumber, but… Annabeth couldn’t have imagined such destruction. 

She’s got a hand hovered over the nearest stained pillow when her instincts blare. A mere heartbeat after she’d concealed herself in the darkest pit of shadows in the cabin, the soft sound of water breaking drifted through the wide open double doors leading to the lake. When she was sure the evening shadows would cover her, Annabeth peered around the wooden dresser.

There, torso resting on the dock, head lazily against one arm, was Percy. Annabeth’s breath caught. His other arm was raised as he played with some sort of creature seemingly made of water. No, not any creature— a puppy. A chihuahua. Her favorite kind of dog— an inside joke between them and something he teased her relentlessly for… or at least he used to.

She watched, transfixed as he made small motions with one of his hands, each finger moving with a fluidity that made it look like they were dancing. She realized he was making slight adjustments to the liquid form itself, molding the ears to be less pointy, the dip of the nose to be softer, the length of tail to curl. She had never seen him create anything so complex or detailed before. Nor had she seen him so at ease— not peace, not quite, but it looked as if the weight of his reality had eased if only slightly. His chest rose and fell deeply and the gentle breeze ruffled his raven hair. The sheen of water coating his shirtless upper body was the sun's echo, casting him in golden light everywhere but the shadowed contours of his muscled frame. 

She needed to talk to him, needed to beg forgiveness and see where his mind was at— that's why she'd come here in the first place, it had taken all afternoon and Leo’s urging to gather the confidence. But as she stood there in concealment and watched him play with the small dog, she faltered. And when the barest hint of a smile tugged at his lip, she couldn't bring herself to ruin this rare moment of happiness, no matter how small for him, no matter how important the conversation was that needed to be had. She’d taken enough from Percy. 

So she watched for a moment more and then carefully, quietly, crept through the cabin in a path of shadows and slipped through the front door. With every step she felt lighter, warmer. 

Percy may never forgive her, he may despise her for the rest of his life, but if he was capable of warmth, of love, of happiness after all she'd done to him— even if it meant without her— then she would be able to go on. She could go on, without him, if that was what he needed to survive this world. She could. 

She had taken his whole world from him, it was only fair that he do the same.

* * *

Fall billowed around her in the form of toga fabrics. The material had been dyed ombre in colors resembling the changing leaves of Autumn and it’s swaths whipped about her legs as she hurried from her chambers, pushing past that strange mute centaur who stood in the threshold. 

Her chest was pounding from the memories that threatened to overtake her senses upon reading the note Zeus’ prized servant had delivered. 

D,

Brace for the possibility of your daughter and her husband’s presence at tonight’s endeavor, though I doubt such a thing will occur. They have remained silent thus far, I see no reason why they would change that now.

— Z

She’d ripped the thick paper in two and slammed it back onto the centaur’s silver tray on her way out and was now rushing through the labyrinth of passageways in the residency section of the palace in a desperate attempt to run from the rising memories. 

Kore, the name she had given her daughter, had been so young when that infestation had gotten to her. Seduced her, manipulated her. The lord of Death had murdered Kore, now only Persephone stood. But the goddess of light and dark was no daughter of hers. Kore had been nothing but light and life with a purity that Demeter had done everything in her power to protect. Persephone was a mockery of Kore, a corrupted slave to the god she’d been coerced into calling her husband. Devine, delicate, beautiful, perfect Kore has been taken from her. Ripped from home and mother and drug down, down, down. 

Swinging at her sides as she tore through increasingly empty halls at random, Demeter clenched and unclenched her fists. 

As she ventured aimlessly, the ceilings became arched, the walls becoming stone in place of marble, the floors just the same. Her pace slowed to a halt. She looked ahead, darkness greeted her. She looked behind and released a sigh of relief. In her raging anger, she’d unknowingly been leaving a trail of rose petals in her wake. She was about to turn and follow them back when someone rounded the corner and froze. 

Demeter sketched a stiff bow as the God Queen stepped into the hall and neared.

“What brings you so deep beneath the palace?”

“Your husband.”

“I as well.” Hera waved a thin arm in the direction of the petals that she hadn’t noticed until then, “Walk with me?”

Demeter dipped her chin and fell into stride with the queen whose heeled feet echoed against the stone they struck with surprising force for the slip of a goddess. Almost as if to say her frail appearance was not indicative of weakness. The queen’s strides were elegant as if she were in her domain though Demeter noticed once they crossed back over to marble floors and gold embossed walls, her steps grew quieter, her whole demeanor shifting as if a flower blossom beginning to wilt. 

Hera cleared her throat eloquently, “You have been here for many weeks, no? For the annual harvest council, if I am not mistaken?”

Demeter called up the fallen petals as they walked over the trail and nodded. “Yes. In the rare moments Dionysus is sober, he is most helpful.”

“I am glad to hear. And how have you been? We have not spoken in some time.”

After a few moments of silence, Demeter decided to be true. “Dreadfully lonely. In the mortal lands I live in isolation, tending to crops and fields alone. When I come here,” she gestured to the decorum of wealth and royalty, “I feel impossibly out of place. One cannot feel the sun or gentle breeze within these slabs of marble, nor feel the earth beneath bare feet or smell the fragrance of growth.” She brought a hand up, a lily sprouting in her palm facing the elaborately painted ceiling depicting battles of old— some of which she was in. “I must admit, immortality is a dull affair when spent alone.”

“I understand completely,” Hera offered, her tone hushed as they passed by several nymphs who hurried by, careful to avert their eyes and hunch their postures to be as noticeable as possible. Neither goddess paid any heed and Demeter gave the queen a sideways glare, flicking wheat colored eyes to the golden crown atop her head. 

“You mock me,” she accused with a hiss.

“I assure you are mistaken.”

“What do you know of pain?” The lily in her palm vanished in a puff of perfumed powder. “My child was _taken_ from me; turned against me and maniacally corrupted. And _you_ ,” she seethed, throwing etiquette to the wayside, “you forced all of yours away. Told Artemis and Apollo to leave the palace and never call it home again, threw Hephaestus from Olympus to the mortal lands, ignored Ares as if he were no more than one of the servants you berate. You know _nothing_ of my pain.”

Without a goodbye, Demeter stormed off in a way that warned against following and Hera stood alone, breathing through the verbal lashing with squared shoulders, her crowned head held high. Jaw set, Hera glanced around before pivoting back the way they’d come. Back to where marble turned stone and shadow covered stairs led to the depths of the catacombs. 

Demeter’s accusations stung and comforted her with equal intensity. Stung because they were all false, and comforting because their falsity had been her creation. Yes, she had done everything despicable thing Demeter had so rightfully sneered at, though not for the reasons at which she’d seethed.

Yes, she had thrown Hephaestus from Olympus so soon after his birth that she’d had to order her handmaids to help pull her weakened body to the edge of the godlands. 

Yes, she had wrapped her babe in rags and held him tightly to her chest before letting go.

Yes, she had held empty arms to herself as she’d watched him fall. But she had done it all to spare him from Zeus. For she had seen the king’s wrathful glare upon setting eyes on Hephaestus for the very first time. And so she had thrown him, banished him, all so he would be far far far away from her husband’s hands.

Hephaestus was mighty, but in his own way and Hera had known it immediately. He felt emotion and empathy more than most gods ever would. She decided that he belonged to the mortal lands, where he could make a real difference and experience true peace. She would never forget how he’d placed a small hand on her bruised cheek— the punishment from Zeus for birthing such an abomination. Hera thought he was beautiful. And those hands would create, would invent, would build a better world. They would never feel the harshness of a father’s rage. And those eyes dark as coal would never bear witness to that rage put into action. Never.

So she’d seen to it that he was cast away; that every god and goddess and mortal knew the tale of Hera, mad with rage for the hideous child she bore. Hera, the heartless mother. Hera, who despised and disowned her son. 

It was true she was caustic and critical towards Ares, though it was more out of fear than anything for he had too much of his father in him. She kept distance from him, afraid that if she ridiculed him for what his essence truly was— at no fault of his own— that she’d only set him down Zeus’ destructive path. She spent many of her walks trying to think of ways to keep him afloat, but more often than not came up empty handed. How does one tame a war? She left Aphrodite to that. The goddess of love had done more good for Hera’s son— both Ares and Hephaestus, in fact— than she ever could, and for that she was eternally grateful. 

And Artemis, her only daughter, her precious girl…

It had taken all her self control not to call out earlier that day, not to run beneath the painted ceilings of strife to embrace her. Instead, she had watched her daughter tremble beneath bow and quiver at the guise of disgust she plastered on. Hera had nearly choked on the pride she’d had to swallow. 

Her daughter had single handedly taught a legion of women to be strong, to fear no beast nor man. She had created a family, a pack of those she protected and loved so fiercely— in doing so, Artemis was more like her mother than she would ever know. And oh how it ached to look down her nose at the goddess who inspired Hera so much and gave her endless hope in this bleak immortal existence. That had been her hope in forcing Artemis away— to grant the one thing she herself would never know: freedom. Though, through each of her children, Hera was free. 

Her curse in life was being chained to Zeus’ side, meaning if they stayed away from her, hated her, then by association they would be safe from him.

Banisher of children, that was the skin she wore more than queen. But she did not care if they despised her for the rest of their immortal lives. She had done what needed to be done. 

She was Rhea’s daughter after all. The Titaness who’d known that without the survival of her children, life was not worth living. Hera had learned much from her mother for it was she who had taught Hera the tools of survival beside a merciless, violent husband— sensing one day she would need them. And need them she had. As if the Fates had taken pity on the Titaness and created an existence of suffering for Hera just so Rhea’s experiences and teachings would not go to waste.

Hera savored the bolts of force that struck her legs as she walked atop the stone of her realm. Down here, the stones amplified the sounds of her heels as if to remind her of the power she held within. When she finally reached the end and halted, it was as if they hushed their echoing to listen.

Holding herself a bit tighter, Hera took in the sight before her and wondered if perhaps Demeter, in a state of desperation, had been unknowingly drawn towards the presence before her. Then she turned the question on herself, wondering if that could be the reason for her own frequent visits.

Two layers of imprisonment caged the goddess of the hearth— the ice that encased her and the cell she was locked within. Iron and ice with a heart of flame. The frozen liquid was so thick and foggy that Hestia’s features could barely be made out; the only thing clear was that her jaw had been frozen in a silent scream and her eyes were wide open yet unblinking. The great goddess, more deserving of the ‘Big Three’ title than any of her brothers… reduced to a victim of Zeus’ paranoia.

Hera didn’t know what compelled her to take a step forward and then another, and place an open palm on the frigid cheek. The cold was disarming but she breathed through the glacial bite. 

The queen of the gods removed her palm and receded. Heel against stone echoed down the tunnel like bullet casings colliding with the ground as she left the empress of hearth and warmth in the unforgiving cold.

* * *

Annabeth stood alone on the bow, Festus her only company while the others got whatever rest they could below deck. The dragon of gold clicked contentedly as they sailed among the stars, climbing the glittering sky.

She turned around so that her back was pressed against the railing and breathed in the midnight air deeply. Her traitorous eyes found their way skyward to where Percy sat alone atop the mast. Wind tousled his hair and the sickle moon above bathed his face in silver light. Both arms were braced on either side of his legs though he leaned slightly forward, back and shoulders hunched.

There was no way that he didn’t know she was staring, but he made no outright indication of disgust so she didn’t look away. 

The easy smile he’d worn while playing with the water chihuahua was nowhere to be seen. If he was nervous or scared or filled with bloodlust, Annabeth hadn’t the slightest idea for his face was unreadable. His jaw was clenched and the muscles feathered, but that had become a norm for him so she didn’t read too much into it.

She couldn’t see his eyes from so far away but when they’d all boarded the Argo less than an hour ago, he’d passed by near enough that she’d seen. And as Annabeth gazed up not at the stars or the moon, but at Percy, she tugged out the memory and analyzed it as if it were a picture. And she realized that his eyes… his eyes had been the color of the ocean in a postcard someone sends when they love you, but not enough to stay.

The thought sent a pang through her heart. She might hate the strange powers mutating within him— hate them in ways she couldn’t describe for putting him through so much agony— but if the gods tried to take them from him, even one drop, she would become the gods’ worst nightmare. Because she was the daughter of Wisdom, of Strategy, of Wrath. She would become all those things and more to right the wrongs. Percy had suffered enough. He had suffered enough. The gods, the Fates, the universe did not deserve him and had no right to make him their pawn.

Nearly everything was her fault, she knew that— even before Nico’s death. As far as she understood it, Tartarus had been the thing to initiate the manifestation of Percy’s true abilities; well, he had only been in Tartarus because of his loyalty to her.

 _“Perseus would let the whole world burn for those he is loyal to”_ , her mother once warned. But the goddess of Wisdom had been wrong. Percy would let _himself_ burn. And without intending to, he had.

Festus let out a throaty growl beside her. She took one last look at Percy— memorizing the image of him in his brother’s place— before turning around. From behind her, Annabeth heard footfalls ascend the steps and cross the deck as the others joined her at the railing of the bow. The God Killer descended the mast in near silence and made way for the rail. 

Annabeth turned her head to either side, taking in her family, and breathed deeply. She didn’t have time to worry about whether this would be the last time she ever stood among them or the last time she breathed air without acid burning her lungs and gasoline coating her throat. She didn’t have time to consider which was worse— Persephone taking up her offer and sending her to Tartarus to serve penance, or the goddess not showing up at all. But Annabeth didn’t have time.

They had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the amount of times Autocorrect had to yell at me for spelling Hephaestus wrong is... embarrassing)  
> (literally every. single. time. like sorry bro I'm tryin' my besttttt)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never been so nervous to post a chapter of any fic as I am right now… I worked so hard on this one and I really really really hope that you like it   
> Feel free to let me know what 'cha think, I’m legit dying to hear :))) 
> 
> (also... Happy New Year!!)

A splinter sunk into the heel of Percy’s palm as he pushed off the worn railing. With a muttered curse, he plucked it out as the Argo settled onto the godlands, the palace in full view and emitting a holy glow beneath the sickle moon of a midnight sky.

He followed the others at a distance, Festus’ distant clicking the only sound then the wooden ramp’s creaking as it lowered. In the distance, far beyond the castle, Percy could just make out the Spire— it’s gemstone panes reflecting the stars above— and behind him were the cobblestone streets of Olympus— ornate residencies and market squares, fountains and sidewalks all bathed in the golden light provided by floating lanterns. He’d never been here at nighttime, it was beautifu— 

No. 

No, there was nothing  _ beautiful  _ about a bunch of immortals hiding out in the clouds, flashing drachmas and chalices of ichor, walking arm in arm while laughing. The music that floated over the hills and past him on a breeze carrying smells he couldn’t name wasn’t beautiful. All of this was only possible because of the hell demigods endured— fighting wars for them, fulfilling prophecies for them, existing as disposable soldiers and nothing more. An oasis paid for by the gods in the form of demigod blood and half-blood lives. 

Percy scowled, unable to conceal his disgust, and turned his attention away from the city of floating lanterns. The ramp had fully lowered and Piper began the descent with Jason at her side. Frank and Leo went next, and Will close behind. Percy watched the son of Apollo take in the city then the palace with the same contempt he himself felt. 

Percy watched calm indifference settle onto Will’s face like a surgical mask as he turned away and stepped onto the ramp. Then he felt the burn of familiar eyes on him, but rather than turn in their direction, he took a deep breath and started after the others. The wooden planks turned to grass and the group began the short trek across the immaculate palace lawn, heading for the door. 

They ascended a hill, moving onto the cobblestone walkway that led to twin doors taller than any cabin; and Percy was struck with deja vu from the dream he’d had the other night of walking towards these same doors. His fingers twitched in memory and he plunged both hands into his pockets to conceal the erratic movements, clutching onto the familiar weight of Riptide instead. The memory flashed again of that dream, remembering how he’d felt whole rather than volatile— remembering the comfort of that concocted blade. He wanted to kill Zeus and Hestia, he wanted to drown the city behind him in ichor. He wanted to turn dream into reality.

_ You don’t have the control for that, _ his inner conscience argued.

_ I don’t care _

_ You could kill yourself,  _ his powers warned.

_ I don’t care _

_ You could kill your family, _ his fatal flaw cried.

_ I have no family. They all betrayed me and the one that didn’t is gone _

To this it countered,  _ You betrayed them first _

_ What? _

_ You hurt them. Piper, Jason, Frank, Leo… Annabeth… _

_ I- I didn’t mean to _

_ You hurt them.  _ The words were a chisel to his skull.  _ They betrayed you because you betrayed them. In proving you are a monster, you gave them no choice. In failing to protect them from danger, you gave them no choice. _

The words died out and all the voices in his head went utterly silent as they grew nearer and nearer to the palace of marble and corruption. Without warning, as if siding with the voice of his fatal flaw, the writhing powers he’d been battling the entire flight sunk deep within him, plummeting along with his heart rate. The change was so abrupt that he lost his footing and stumbled over his own feet. A hand was instantly there to right him. Percy ripped away from Annabeth’s touch.

“Let go,” he practically growled under his breath. The words were nothing more than a recent reflex he’d developed— he was just trying to protect her. 

_ See _ , his fatal flaw snickered _ , nothing more than a monster… no better than the beast that—  _

Though he was still reeling from the sudden drop in his core and essence, the look of hurt on Annabeth’s face revibrated within his hollow self like a dagger scraping against exposed bone. He parted his lips to explain himself, but then his thoughts cleared and he remembered he didn’t owe her an explanation. Thankfully, they’d reached the entrance.

In the antechamber pact with minor gods who were also arriving, two nymphs wove through the crowd to greet them, dredging Percy back to the present. The trouser and jacket uniform denoted the nymph on the left as male and to his right stood a much taller female who wore fabrics of near transparency and deadpan eyes as if numb to the violation of privacy. Both uniforms were of platinum white fabrics, the signature garb of every indentured servant in the palace, though their lavender skin and high cheekbones were unique. Percy’s mind was too muddled to recall the complex and vast system of nymph species to identify which these markings belonged to.

The demigods averted their eyes from the female out of respect as the two bowed deeply with perfect posture, nearly to the marble floor, in a flourished sign of subordination that Zeus enforced with a heavy hand. 

“Good evening,” the male said, a slight accent tugging at his words. “Welcome to the palace of his eminence, the King and her majesty, the Queen.”

The female dipped her head, extending a lithe arm towards one of the many hallways leading out of the atrium, “This way, if you will.”

Annabeth gave a look of genuine concern to Percy, staring a moment as if to make sure he wouldn’t fall again, then strode ahead to ask their guides specifics about the meeting. Percy’s mind was too detached and overwhelmed by the disconcerting silence of his powers to join or even to take in the palace interior they strode through. The chill from the stone and marble didn’t shake him out of it as much as he’d hoped, nor did the presence of so many immortals milling about in the atrium they crossed who were waiting to be gathered by guide nymphs of their own. Many stared at him as they passed by— some with awe, others fear, but most just looked repulsed.

He lengthened his strides to fall into place beside the daughter of Aphrodite who’d taken to observing each and every minor god or platinum uniformed nymph they passed.

“Piper, I need you to do something.” His words were strained, and it felt odd to speak to her with such seriousness— in fact, it felt strange to speak to her at all after so long. He felt raw, vulnerable even, despite the fact she’d been one of his closest friends before everything changed.

She seemed equally surprised to hear his voice directed at her. “What’s up?” She replied softly and waved Jason off when he looked over his shoulder. Turning back to Percy as their entourage passed beneath the arched entrance of a lavishly decorated hallway, Piper watched Percy run a hand through his hair, pausing at his forehead with a wince.

Her mortal senses smelled saltwater, but those of ichor coded influence sensed conflict and confusion emitting from her friend. He glanced ahead of them to make sure no one could hear before lowering his hand and clearing his throat.

“Can you tell me to focus.”

“Um… ‘focus’?”

Percy shook his head. “You know what I mean.”

“But, you told me not t—”

“Please, Pipes.” The name came out before he could even think what he was saying, before he could remember he’d refused to call her that in weeks.

Those brown eyes met sea green for a moment, but she didn’t mention it. “Can I,” she asked instead, hesitantly reaching out to ghost a hand atop his forearm. He nodded tensely.

Sure she could use charmspeak without making physical contact, but it made things easier and after so many nights of charming her friends to sleep without Clovis’ help, she was nearly drained. Hovering just above burnout, her mouth had been dry for days and her body ached with the type of exhaustion she knew wouldn’t be remedied by a single nights sleep. Nevertheless, she grasped his arm, their tan skin barely contrasting in hue, and when he didn’t lash out, she coaxed the power within her.

_ “Focus.” _

He blinked a few times then his eyes became clearer, his breathing more even, his posture more solid. He looked around as if seeing the gold embellished hall and mural painted ceiling for the first time.

With a nod of thanks, Percy made his way to the front where he caught the last bits of an answer to a question Annabeth must’ve asked.

“... which is why you all will be seated in the viewing balconies of the upper gallery. As demigods,” the male nymph explained, “the rules of Extended Council permit your attendance, though without voting privileges of which are reserved for the Twelve Major Olympians that make up the usual council as well as any minor gods.”

“Are all the minor gods here?” Jason asked from beside Annabeth. The female nymph nodded, seemingly unaffected by how her see-through fabrics lifted on the breeze of her strides.

“As you saw, many are still arriving. Despite the monumental occasion, most have renounced their votes to be spectators.” 

Annabeth swallowed. “They won’t be voting?”

The guide’s voice lowered and her purple irises flicked to Annabeth, “You must understand the complex politics that are at play.

Her companion extended a slender arm, signaling them all down another hall with battles of magic paint adorning the arched ceilings. Only once it became empty did he slow his pace and hesitate before elaborating, “Many gods find they prefer to enjoy their immortality by staying out of his royal highness, the King’s, eye.”

Though the female gave him a sharp look full of warning and fear, she fidgeted with the thin golden chain wrapped around her left arm— in other circumstances it would look like a piece of delicate jewelry, but here in this palace, it symbolized so much more.

“As I said, politics are complex and the minor gods, for the sake of self preservation, deem it best to abstain— not to pick a side at all.”

“What’s the point of all this ‘Extended Council’ nonsense then?” Leo scoffed incredulously. 

“That,” the male said with no small amount of spite, “is a question a lowly servant as I am unqualified to answer.”

Frank spoke up to question them some more, but Percy stopped listening. The others were silent as they were brought to a set of golden stairs. The female remained at the base and the male led them up. He stopped at the archway, gesturing into the private balcony with two rows of six velvet seats. The demigods file in with tilted heads and strained smiles of thanks but when Percy moved to follow, a platinum jacket sleeve bared his entry.

“Mr. Jackson, a moment if you would?”

Percy followed him a step to the side of the archway, out of sight from the others.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“Uh, for what?”

“Back in the battle of Manhattan, Zeus drafted many of us to fight, my father being one of them. He returned because of you.” Percy stilled. “Being trapped with royal gods for eternity makes one grow accustomed to cruelty and corruption, but you gave every one of us in the palace hope that someone cared about our lives when so many returned after the battle— all with stories of the half-blood with eyes of sea green who fought like a god.”

Percy stood there, the nymph’s words like stones falling in the empty chasm of his essence. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

He smiled knowingly then it fell as he thrust his hand forward, “Here,” placing a small crystal into Percy’s palm. “I am sorry for your loss, may the God Killer rest in eternal peace.”

Utterly speechless, Percy tried for words but the female nymph’s voice drifted up the stairwell, shouting from the bottom that more guides were needed in the atrium right away. The being that Percy now realized was a mineral nymph sketched a deep bow and turned to leave.

“W-wait,” Percy stammered. “What’s your name?”

His amethyst colored lips twitched in a bitter smile. “I am property of the Almighty King. I have no name.”

Percy stood there in stunned silence for several heartbeats before pocketing the stone and turning for the balcony entrance with a hollow essence, a silent core, and a heavy heart. 

* * *

As they took their seats, Leo took in his surroundings. He’d only ever been in the Throne Room before, never here. The Chamber of Council was vastly different from the Throne room; built like a colosseum and a theater all at once. 

Like a solar system, the focus of the space was an enormous circular floor of the purest marble he’d ever seen— no grey lines or lesions defected it’s surface— all serving to contrast the myriad of thrones atop it. Two golden thrones— the king and queen’s— were empty though sat on a slightly raised bit of marble slab, with two stairs at the base of each to ascend. With ample space between them, to the left of the queen’s throne sat one of shell decorum and some translucent material that formed a tank in the shape of a throne and was filled entirely with light blue water. To the right of the king’s was a throne of stygian so dark the contours of the seat were indiscernible and t he arc of sunken in gemstones at the back looked as if they were hovering, suspended in the void. Both of the two thrones— of sea and of death— were also raised but only by one stair. 

The remaining thrones all rested directly on the floor in an arc that outlined the circular marble floor. The rest of the Major Twelve— of whom did not include the king or queen— had unique thrones as well.

Leo’s brow furrowed as he counted the empty thrones— Hades, Poseidon, Demeter, Athena, Apollo, Artemis, Ares, Hephaestus, Hermes, Aphrodite, and Hecate. But that was only eleven… that’s when it struck him. Hestia. Given the layout, Hestia’s should be a raised throne with one stair as sister to Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon. Sure she’d gone missing, but why wasn’t there a throne? And surely one of the immortals knew where she was.

He slid on the velvet of his seat, leaning over to ask in hushed tones, “Where’s Hestia’s?”

Piper followed his gaze then shook her head. “Huh, I don’t know. Annabeth told me she never goes to council meetings, maybe they got rid of it?”

“I thought Hades didn’t either?”

Piper shrugged, “Two of them conspired to murder a teenager, we’ll never know why they do what they do. Probably for the best.” 

She turned back to Jason who was tugging at the cuff of his long sleeve shirt. He’d stopped wearing the bandage to conceal his eagle tattoo, but hadn’t stopped covering it. Leo’s shoulders slumped.

“I was hoping she’d be here too,” said a voice behind his left shoulder. Leo turned in his chair to find Will seated in the row behind him along with Frank and Annabeth who were at a distance. The master healer rubbed absentmindedly at his mysteriously bandaged palms but pinned narrowed eyes to the golden throne. “We need all the help we can get.”

His focus slid to another throne, one that forced Leo to squint from the miniature solar flares leaping across its surface and Leo wondered after the concern that cast itself onto Will’s face but asked instead, “Where do you think she’s been? Why’d she leave in the first place?”

Will didn’t reply, just shook his head, letting it fall between his shoulders. Leo threw a quick glance to Frank who nodded and leaned over to comfort the healer. Frank always knew what to say, when to stay quiet, and really did give the best hugs— all things the son of Hephaestus envied. Not with malice, just that he wished he was as good at fixing people as he was machines. Leo turned back around.

The rest of the thrones were simple things; much smaller and far less grand. All seemingly made of the same lightly stained wood though each backing was painted in the same mystical fashion as the domed roof in Jason’s cabin at camp and the arched ceilings of the palace hallways. He didn’t know all the minor gods but could make out a few by the artworks: glittering rainbows for Iris, lazily floating clouds for Hypnos, a teetering scale for Nemesis, laurels for Nike, humanoid silhouettes for Psyche, winter mountains covered in falling snow for Khione, blinking eyes of forgiveness for Hebe, a conch for Triton, a man aging over and over again for Geras… there were many more but Leo was at a loss.

He’d never realized just how many minor gods there were. How had they not banded together centuries ago to unseat Zeus? But then he lifted his gaze, surveying the hundreds of balconies just like the one they sat in that were secured to the curved walls of the cylindrically walled room, orbiting the central slab of thrones marble as if galaxies around a black hole. Taking note of how pact those balconies were as more and more minor gods were led into them by nymphs of every color and marking in their platinum uniforms, Leo got his answer.

Leo knew he wasn’t as apt at reading people as Piper, but what he did know was the hum of a well constructed machine. And the overall sound that filled the air didn’t sound right. The chattering from the balconies wasn’t smooth or consistent. It was wrong, as if a misaligned cog or broken toothed gear was interfering. This interference was the answer to his question.

Fear. Selfish fear for the security of their own slices of influence, their own threads of power, and a carnal fear of the punishments bestowed upon defiers of their king. Leo’s attention was pulled back downward because the marble opened up and several wooden thrones began descending, sinking beneath to hidden depths. The remaining thrones then moved closer to each other as if on rails. Despite the echoing conversation of minor gods in the balconies scattered about the walls, Leo could hear with perfect clarity the whirr of engines and steady grinding of gears— the sound comforted him. 

This rearrangement dance of thrones continued and he recalled how in the atrium, many of the nymphs had carried lists with them— perhaps to record which minor gods would be denouncing their voting privileges and thrones in favor of spectatorship from the safety of velvet clad balconies. 

A simmering resentment had Leo biting his lip and his leg began to bounce with excess energy. Had these immortals gotten bored and just wanted some evening entertainment? The thought disgusted him and though burnout still singed the edges of his essence, Leo felt his palms grow hot as embers. He swallowed the smoke that curled on his tongue just as Percy stepped through the arched entrance to their private balcony. He watched the son of Poseidon run those sea green eyes across the seating arrangement, catching on Will who Frank had an arm wrapped around and was speaking softly to. Percy looked at no one as he walked behind the back row of seats, wrapping around the far end to come up front and sit at the unoccupied left side of Leo.

Percy lowered himself into the velvet cushion and turned something in his palm as he surveyed their surroundings with practiced intensity. There was a strangeness to his expression that Leo didn’t understand. He thought he’d known Percy well, but the past weeks had done nothing but prove him wrong. Not for the first time and surely not for the last, Leo wished things could go back to the way they’d once been.

“What’s that?” Leo asked with the jerk of his chin.

Without looking, Percy opened his hand. From his time with Hazel who’d taught him a lot about gemstones on those restless nights aboard the Argo, Leo recognized it as a piece of raw, uncut aquamarine. It was a lump half the size of his pinky finger with a foggy unpolished surface. 

“The nymph guide gave it to me,” Percy said with that distant gaze that Leo liked to call his ‘lone fisherman standing at the end of a dock at dawn’ look. Before all this, Leo had learned that look meant Percy was lost in his head and that talking always helped. But now… now, Leo had no idea what to do. 

“You okay? I mean…ya know, all things considered,” he was glad for the noise of the room that swallowed up the uncertainty wavering his voice. And then, because he himself just needed to talk to keep their situation from setting in, added lightheartedly, “having any homicidal thoughts?”

Percy leveled his ‘I was trained by an immortal Roman wolf goddess’ gaze onto Leo. Internally, Leo cursed himself with such creativeness even the Fates would’ve been impressed, but on the outside he parted his lips to apologize for the tone deaf joke. Percy broke the glare though and ran a hand through his raven hair. It was longer than usual and wind tousled from the flight. During their travels, Leo remembered seeing an ad for a male cologne somewhere in Rome; Percy looked just like that model— just without the flowing white shirt, with way more scars and eyes that had seen too much.

“It’s quiet.”

“What is?”

Percy gestured to his chest.

“Oh, oh gotcha,”  he bobbed his head even though he hadn’t the slightest clue what it was like to have such powers. With normal demigods like himself, there was nothing to be wrestled with, no inner battle, no ‘quiet’ or ‘chaos’ inside. His abilities were an extension of himself and using them was like breathing. Sure he’d had to learn control and finess, but it had been like learning to walk or swing a sword. He’d often heard Percy explain that using his usual powers of controlling water felt like a tugging in his core, but that wasn’t usual for ordinary demigods. If Percy were a machine, Leo would hypothesize that the strain on his system was due to incorrect material usage— basically, being half mortal, half god wasn’t suitable for the intensity of his powers.  And then, since his nerves wouldn’t let him shut up, “So… what does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Percy loosed a tense breath and even Leo could decipher that he was greatly unsettled. He tried for a bit of optimism. 

“That’s good though, right? That it’s quiet?”

Percy’s jaw feathered and he repeated, “I don’t know.”

Finally getting the hint that talking wasn’t what Percy needed right now, Leo clamped his lips shut to keep from saying anything that would disturb the ‘quiet’ within the God Killer.

Sounds of minor gods taking to their thrones rose from below as the doors were finally opened. Leo was thankful for the distraction and played a game with himself— trying to guess which minor god belonged to which painted throne before they sat down. He got three out of five correct and was feeling quite accomplished when another set of doors opposite the first and far more elaborate swung open.

Warmth filled the space as Apollo strode in, shoulder to shoulder with his sister. There was a strangeness to her that Leo couldn’t pin down— but the way she held onto the bow slung around her and refused to fully look at the brother beside her was definitely odd. Then Athena with unforgiving steel in her gaze that systematically analyzed the still present thrones as she took to hers. Next came Demeter whose hair was done in a complex multitude of braids that reminded Leo of a Viking shieldmaiden, though he guessed the style was more so to keep the hair from her face while harvesting than for battle. Clad in a fall colored toga and sporting a disapproving scowl that reminded Leo of the nuns at the orphanage, she gathered the ombre skirts while lowering into her throne of woven wheat and stalks of corn. The chill that went up his spine at the familiarity of her scowl only strengthened as the broadly sneering Ares stepped onto the marble circle with obnoxiously loud sounds erupting beneath those tan combat boots. He crossed the space with both muscled shoulders thrown back, leather jacket halfway unzipped, and not a piece of armor on him but looking like he was stepping onto a battlefield all the same. 

Poseidon and Hermes then entered. Beside Leo, there was no change to Percy’s features at the sight of his father. The two gods seemed to be arguing as they moved farther into the Chamber, though friendly smiles were exchanged as they broke off to take their respective places. 

A faint aura of herbs wafted upward as Hecate entered. Ivory whorls glowed against mahogany skin, her silver hair unbound and long enough to flit about her hips. The goddesses Night form. She walked with poise, though the expression on her face was almost sheepish. Leo almost felt bad at the clear agony on her face when she glanced in his direction in search of a daughter who had refused to attend. She lowered her eyes and Leo and the other now seated gods watched her wizard-like robes billow in the air as she moved for her throne of mosaic panes resembling her Spire. A moment after she sat down, a ripple cascaded across her entire being. Ivory whorls became orange, mahogany skin became pale white, straight silver hair became curly blond. Leo supposed it was now past midnight, for he was looking at Hecate’s Morning form.

At a movement to his right, Leo glanced out the corner of his eye to Piper who had leaned forward ever so slightly, watching the whorl clad goddess situate herself. Leo looked back and forth— goddess to demigod, trying to see what had caused Piper's head to tilt and brow to arch. He parted his lips to ask but the look vanished as her mother entered, his own father close behind.

With an elegant smile that revealed a row of perfectly square teeth, the goddess wove an arm into her husband’s, using the other to send a regal wave in Ares’ direction who bared his teeth in a savage grin. The corseted ballgown she wore accentuated every curve and its deep purple skirts glistened in the light as her hips swung with each step. Beside her, Leo’s father looked like a peasant. A kind eyed, hardworking peasant in welding overalls and grease stained steel toe boots. 

From Leo’s left, Percy tried to be inconspicuous as he gripped the arm of his chair with white knuckles. Deep within, from wherever his powers had gone into hiding, there was a sudden bucking that quickly turned into a stinging lash as they began to climb up, up, up. His breathing turned ragged and just when Leo noticed and was about to ask if he was alright, the air shifted in the Chamber. At the sight of the God King, Percy’s powers receded so quickly that he sucked in a sharp breath and a pang of vertigo struck him, leaving both his head and stomach reeling.

Leo didn’t see though— no, as the King of the Gods entered his domain, Leo’s complete focus was drawn to the scene below. By the time he looked over to Percy, the son of Poseidon’s breaths were steady once more and the muscles in his jaw were only slightly feathered. Leo returned his attention back down. 

The queen wore a grey toga to match Zeus’ quilted jacket, and crowns adorned them both. Her’s was smaller, less a crown more a crescent moon headband peaking out within the twists of platinum hair wound around her head. But on Zeus’ peppery head of hair sat a proper crown, a king’s crown, of solid gold. No jewls or filaments or inlays, it was just like the marble floor they moved across— no imperfections, nothing to distract from the true material’s purity.

Leo’s heart plummeted as he watched every god present rise; as he watched Zeus climb those two marble steps and take his place; as he watched every god then lower into their respective thrones. It dropped along with any bits of hope he’d been clinging to. 

This wasn’t a man accused of murder who would be tried and found guilty for his crimes. No. No, Leo was in the presence of an immortal King. The god of immortals who bowed before him, who sat only once he had, who spoke only with permission, who voted only when he allowed it. God of Justice… there would be no justice here. 

Hades’ throne was empty, Hestia’s nowhere to be seen, Persephone’s just the same. 

Every instinct in Leo’s body screamed, pleaded, cried to  _ run _ . To run as far away from this sanctum of cunning monsters and grinning murderers. To run and run and never return.

* * *

If heat could rise then so too could emotion. The tender sweetness of Hephaestus and Aphrodite, the gleeful toxicity of her and Ares. The sorrow and deep seated anger of Demeter, the hesitancy of the minor gods below and bated excitement of those inhabiting the other balconies. 

Piper sensed all of this and more, slightly overwhelmed with a buzz despite the burnout of her powers that still lingered in her every breath. So potent was the fear rippling from the God Killer that she could pick up on it even with Leo seated between them. It was bitter on her tongue, but that soul bond with it’s severance… she’d never tasted alcohol but would be willing to bet it gave the same effects. 

Something grabbed the attention of her senses, as if an invisible hand tapping her on the shoulder, guiding her chin to tilt. It came as a result of Hecate transforming from Night to Morning. Like a phantom explosion, guilt and unease burst from the goddess as her body morphed and settled. 

That sense gently urged her again, this time back to Percy. Though she could not feel physical pain from another, she did pick up on the distress that floated from the son of Poseidon. He seized the arm of his chair, knuckles going white, jaw and eyelids clenching tightly. She was about to catch Leo’s attention to check on Percy but then the air shifted and she went still.

Every single god— both Major and minor, both below in thrones and above in the private viewing balconies— rose from their seats. The demigods did not. 

Even if she’d wanted to, Piper would have remained planted in her seat at the collective emotion that rose as the immortals did. A steady, unifying, collective fear. It clogged her senses as if struck with a cold, and she could do nothing but bask in all its glory. She found herself leaning forward in unison with the other gods.

And when she turned her attention to the King of the Gods, it was with fresh eyes. How had he done this? How had he, for  _ millennia _ , established a precedence of fear and yet remain in control? How did he stride into a meeting so clearly certain of its outcome? How did he have such command over the room before a single word was even said? Her eyes darted around the Chamber of Council, from god to Zeus, god to Zeus and so on, searching, hunting for the answer. It came to her the moment the God King climbed those two steps and lowered into his throne of gold. 

God of Justice… no. No, Piper was in the presence of the God of Manipulation. And she would be lying to say she wasn’t slightly impressed.

* * *

The King of the Gods smiled inwardly as his subjects lowered to their thrones, for it was clear Hades and that insufferably mysterious woman of his were nowhere to be seen. He’d sent scouts all the way to the Underworld mere hours ago who’d relayed to him from Underworld nymphs that neither immortal would be attending. The Fates had been wrong, those imbeciles. He could practically feel his grip tightening around his own fate and he relished in the sensation of bending it to his will— just like these fools in their thrones and those spineless cowards hiding away in the balconies up above.

It had been no easy task seeking out each of the minor and Major gods, convincing them of his tale or to abstain from their votes entirely, but it had been worth it. Those he’d persuaded to spectate had indeed denounced their votes— every single one. Now only five remained, a number he’d picked specifically to guarantee enough variety to keep suspicion well away. As for the Major gods, he’d done all he could in gaining allies, but he knew it would be enough. And even if that weak-spirited vernal girl dared to show her face, Zeus had prepared for that as well. All was to plan. 

He kept the Council waiting a moment more, just to bask in the power that thrummed throughout his immortal bones and caused a few of them to shift in their seats. And then he lifted a hand from the arm of his golden throne, beckoning over his shoulder for a platinum clothed nymph to enter the ring of gods.

The male scurried forward. Wordlessly, he dropped to his knees and pressed his palms and forehead to the first of the two marble steps before the king’s throne. He then rose, dropped to his knees again and repeated the ritual to the queen’s. Finally, the nymph rose to his full height and hurried to the middle of the gods which took a moment given the immensity of the marble floor’s diameter. Finding the exact center with a dark flush to his sky blue cheeks from exertion and humiliation, he cleared his throat.

“His Royal Highness— King of the Gods, ruler of Olympus, god of sky and justice— welcomes you all to the Chamber of Council.” After taking a moment to catch his breath, he reached into the folds of his jacket and produced a scroll weathered and brown with age. 

Rife with anticipation, Zeus drowned out the creature’s droning as it recited the rules of Extended Council— the procession of voting, who was permitted to speak and when, and a disclaimer that once a verdict was reached, no further grievances could be made. But Zeus did not care, he already knew what the ruling would be— this was all a matter of formality. Anything to uphold his image and ensure his crown and the loyalty of his subjects. But this would all be over soon. Soon, the first God Killer’s death would be long forgotten, the second— Poseidon’s boy— would be mortal with not a drop of power to his name, and the other children of the Big Three— his own son and whatever that girl’s name was— would be so weakened and depleted that they’d be normal, manageable demigods. There would be no threats to his throne and the whining of half-blood mutts would be nothing more than empty complaints, with no risk of them getting any ideas of revolt in their mundane little heads. The next step would be creating an ordinance to… Zeus forced his mind to pause, to clear. He couldn’t get ahead of himself. Just enjoy the moment, he told himself. 

Finally the creature finished it’s babbling and Zeus gave a dismissive wave to send it away before allowing a broad grin to spread across his face.

"Now then," the king declared once the creature had exited the Chamber, "we are gathered here today for the purposes of…."

The God King’s words faded out as he suddenly noticed a layer of rippling darkness enter through the open doorway, pouring onto the expanse of marble floor and spreading like spilled ink. The gods whose thrones were directly on the marble raised their feet or gathered the lengths of their togas in disgust and surprise. Zeus maintained his aura of dominance over the Chamber, not letting his grin diminish.  _ I planned for this _ , he assured himself,  _ everything is under control… everything is under  _ my  _ control.  _ He sensed Hera go stiff in her throne though her face was unreadable as ever, the slight smile on her lip as composed as ever.  _ Good girl, _ he snickered internally before dragging his attention back to the threshold.

Wreathed in formless shadows, a figure stepped through the threshold with leather oxford shoes. As the first step fell, the cover of seeping darkness rushed back to join those shadows that ebbed and floated in the air as if licks of flame. Despite them, Annabeth could make out the bone-white complexion, razor-sharp jawline, and insultingly handsome yet blank features signature to only one god. None of the appearance was new to her for she had met Death many times. 

However, something did catch her attention. In all of her encounters, and even in studying ancient text and art, never had Annabeth seen  _ those _ and judging by the reactions all around her, she wasn't alone. She couldn't help but wonder for how many eons had Hades shrouded those horns with shadow and Mist. 

Twin spirals of darkness reflected the bright lighting of the Chamber, causing a multichromatic shift between crimson and that of a bruised purple. The base of each disappeared within his raven hair that was shorn close on either side of his head in a perfect fade, concealing the point of connection by the styled length on top.

At the sight, the smug grin Zeus had been wearing slipped as he too was rendered speechless.

Thin silver adorned the tip of each horn which matched the similarly silver metal wrapped in bands around their girth, etched with what Annabeth could not make out, though unease rolled throughout her when she stared, reminding her of the infamous nightmare helm.

His very presence— refined, unbothered, restrained in a way that hinted to the immensity of the power he contained— commanded the space and demanded respect. Not for the first time, Annabeth thought he moved like a god, a  _ true _ god, a being of eternal life— of death and deathless all at once. Despite the appearance of someone in their mid-thirties, his ancientness could be felt. He moved not like a tyrant, but a king; and by the look on Zeus' face, he was reaching the same conclusion. 

Annabeth had been expecting Hades to burst in, war helm on, ready to reign terror and vengeance on them all. At the very least, she thought he'd be wrecked with anguish and blind fury much like the Furies he commanded— but the being who strode across the white marble with it's mirror-polished surface smothered her every expectation. He moved unhurriedly, each step graceful and impossibly silent, not even a rise or fall to his chest. It was as if he was unaffected by the thick tension in the room and immune to shocked stares and murderous glares from his fellow Olympians.

Not even a crown rested on his head. The King of the Underworld. Death incarnate needed no crown for his position to be known, to be felt. Though with horns like those, it was as if Hades had been born crowned. 

The Silent One, as he’d been fittingly named in ancient times, didn’t so much as acknowledge Zeus’ existence. Though he did pause in his unhurried stride to tilt his head— those multichrome horns shifting in the light as he did— to his right. He pinned the god of the sun with that lightless onyx gaze and in a movement so slight Annabeth would have missed it if not for those silver adornments that glinted, Death bowed to Apollo. 

Those shadows fashioned themselves into a loose interpretation of a cloak, pulling away from his face so that nothing could conceal the slow glance to Poseidon— one that wordlessly spoke of disappointment— before moving for his historically vacant throne. He turned and stood before it.

The shadows—  _ his _ shadows— flitted about him, absorbing Olympus’ heavenly light. He angled his head with an air of disdain, taking in the ring of seated gods. And his eyes, Annabeth would never not feel a chill go up her spine at the sight of those eyes. No white, no iris, just two voids of polished, depthless night.

It was another moment before Zeus recovered. The King of the Gods returned the grin to his lip and spread his arms in welcome with a bellowed laugh. "So good of you to join us, brother! Please, take a seat, we were just about to begin."

Chatter from the spectators floated in the tense air because Hades had not sat down; a fact Zeus now noted with visible confusion. But before he could so much as part his lips in question or command, the closed double doors that only he and Hera had entered through burst open and a hush fell over the Chamber as the universe's first contradiction— paradox given form— stepped through the gilded threshold. 

Zeus’ grin slipped once more. His grip on the arms of his thrones threatened to crush the reinforced gold. Hades smiled.

Annabeth had never met the Queen of the Underworld, never so much as seen her despite the many ventures to Death's domain. Hushed whispers wafted through the room from the other balconies, but the gods below— both Major and minor— went utterly still in their thrones. Like spotted fawns lost in a forest coming face to face with a hellhound.

Yes, Aphrodite held beauty that was both unparalleled and immeasurable, but Persephone…

The ease with which each leg curved with toned muscles stepped, bare feet landing silent yet powerfully against the marble floor, was captivating. Captivating, yes, but beautiful? Beautiful was too tame a word. She was not beautiful in the way Aphrodite was— tugging at your heart, coaxing your brain. No, her beauty was alarming. As if encountering a mountain lion on a beach.

With irises green as a grove of moss and fern, she glanced at each god she passed. An elegant smile pulled at the corners of her naturally rosy, unpainted lips. A smile that did not meet those fern-green eyes.

Deep olive skin marked with a constellation of caramel freckles was wrapped in a dress of silk and tulle swaths. It's sheer sleeves like morning fog trapped in a valley; the dress itself an uneven light green as if it too had been fog-white before rolling around in a field of fresh grass— dying it with the earth itself. Her hair, layered and untamed flowed down across her back, pieces coming forward to frame her gentle cheekbones and strong jaw. So too were her bare feet stained with evidence of earth— dirt clung to them as if she'd just come from gardening. A picture of youth and serenity, a certain tenderness about her, and yet… and yet those eyes gave it away. Those eyes and the way she carried herself spoke of something far greater held within. That up-tilt to her lip, the delicate narrowing of thick, full brows, and the vibrancy of those eyes… yes— there was something hiding within this goddess of spring. 

Shoulders back, she moved as if balancing a sword within her body. Every step she took felt of purpose, every movement of those olive toned arms felt primordial; the blink of her lids, the flick of her eyes around the Chamber of Council felt eternal. This was the being Annabeth had offered her soul to. Suddenly, she did not feel so relieved.

"Does this sacred ground not burn those delicate feet?" Ares' chafing, brutish voice sliced through the chittering above and silence below. Halfway across the marble floor's center, the goddess paused the drag of her sandal-less feet.

Her smile turned sickly sweet as she asked innocently, "Is your tender ass not sore against that throne from your evening activities?"

The god of war growled with impressive ferocity, Hypnos went wide eyed as all color leached from his face, and Aphrodite tried to hide her amusement behind a lace fan, but all Annabeth picked up on was the deepness of Persephone’s voice— too deep to match the strange beauty of her face. It didn't match, Annabeth thought to herself. None of it. And yet it did. Something strung every conflicting aspect together, some invisible thread woven through the dichotomy to create one harmonious being.

Still at the center of the galaxy that was the Chamber— looking as if every god were in a paused orbit about her— Persephone tilted her head, the movement more animal than anything. Those eyes of fern landed on the space between thrones of stygian and trabeated limestone. A steady, freckle-dusted hand extended before her, willing a throne into existence. Though her hand lowered back to her side, her work continued to grow and form as she strode unhurriedly towards her still standing mate.

With a loving smile, the Queen of the Underworld took Death's cold hand and turned so all could see the halo of raw, unrefined diamond ingot, hellhound teeth, and calla lilies that rest atop her soil-brown locks. A crown fit for a queen. Annabeth stole a glance at Hera, whose eyes glinted with holy murder beneath the meager strip of gold atop her own head that barely looked different from the headband that Piper wore. Annabeth turned her attention back to watch, transfixed, as Persephone gathered the modest length of splotched green fabric in her empty hand and lower onto a throne of moss covered bone.

Taking her time to look into Hades eyes, those orbs with which she had fallen in love with, she knew her mother was watching, seething, but Persephone didn’t care. Hades had seen the darkness within her and instead of suffocating it with light, as her mother had tried, he’d offered her half of his kingdom. Their souls danced, fates intertwined, ichor drenched hearts beat as one.

And as such, she could feel the strain in both of their hearts from the loss of their angel. She turned her gaze away from the god who made her bones ache with longing, and smiled at the one of which she achingly longed to break every bone. And despite seeing red as she gazed towards the murderer of her child, she said nothing, simply nodded. Granting permission for him to speak.

Had the circumstances been different, Annabeth would have burst out laughing, but as it were she swallowed her amusement and watched her friend’s killer bristle at the lack of respect. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture with an air of aristocracy then began anew.

“We are gathered here today in the wake of battle— the victory, a pyrrhic one, due to lives both taken and lost. A moment of silence to honor our fallen kin who fought and perished valiantly.” He closed his eyes and every god in the Chamber obeyed. Then his booming voice echoed once more, “It has been common knowledge to us all that children of my brothers and I possess strength unlike any other demigod. In my wisdom, I sensed long ago that two such children would surpass even this heightened strength.” He looked around the Chamber, even skyward to the balconies above. His eyes were unseeing though, as he read from memory the speech of carefully crafted words he’d written the past morning. With a deep, sorrowful breath, he continued. 

“Long have I known that two God Killers roamed the mortal lands— a phenomena of the likes this universe has never seen before. The God Killers in question— Nico di Angelo and Perseus Jackson,” a pause as a scattering of minor gods whom he’d had his servants bribe into adverse reactions to the news burst into a flurry of gasps and fear, “are both well known for their skills and bravery, revered demigods at Camp Half-Blood, which is why I decided to keep them safe from those who might have sought to exploit their unique status for personal gain— such as the giants, Echidna, or Gaea. Rather than bring dangerous attention to them anymore than being children of the Big Three already did, I let them be to grow and learn as regular demigods. And so,” another heavy breath, “I kept the information to myself… until I could no longer.”

_ I am going to rip out his teeth one by one and shove them down his throat as I fill his veins with thorns and make a pond for my water lilies from his ichor and give Cerberus his eyes to play with and shove that crown so far up his—  _

Though she could hear far more graphic thoughts coming from the other end of their mating bond, Hades clenched her hand within his slightly.

_ Not yet, my love… _

She complied but not without sending a grumble of supreme displeasure down the bond. The chill of his hand grounded her and she focused on it. Only then could she maintain that soft smile and continue listening to the monster more vile than Tartarus.

“.... I knew I could trust Hecate to assist me in creating a failsafe when it became clear in the days before the battle that something within the di Angelo boy had changed. With her expertise, we did just that. We never imagined… we never imagined having the need to deploy it, but there was just no other way. The God Killer turned on his own camp and before he could slaughter them all and himself, the threat was eliminated. What occurred that day is demonstrative of the harsh truth that half-bloods simply lack the physical and mental capacity of enduring such power.”

Persephone’s soft expression did not change even as she spoke to Hades down the bond,  _ We should have gone with your initial plan, he’s got them all eating out of his hand like pigeons. _

_ Not all,  _ he replied simply.  _ We must let him see that, he deserves to know.  _

“And so, I ask for your vote to put an end to this suffering before another event like this occurs. For the safety of your children and the security of their beloved camp; for the sake of sparing Perseus Jackson from being forced to endure the unimaginable.”

_ Not yet…  _ Hades said in response to her fury reaching new heights.

As his hand clenched around hers more tightly, it was an effort not to glance down at their intertwined hands. She knew what he was doing. What memories he was trying to elicit to lessen the edges of her fury. When they had first met, she remembered his touch as he’d run his hands over her past— lingering over the dents and worn edges of her heart. She remembered tensing, preparing herself to fight or flee before he could run away or raise a hand to strike her as she’d witnessed on visits to Olympus. And when he’d taken her calloused palms into his own, met her eyes and whispered, “You are a warrior, but you will never have to fight another battle alone”, Persephone had melted. 

That was what he was doing now as he held her hand, as he tightened his grip without looking. Not to suppress her, not to control her, but to remind her that she was not alone. That he was here. He was here.

Persephone took a breath and slid her flat, seemingly uninterested gaze back to the King of the Gods who addressed the council though she felt his attention directed at her. Hera rose beside the king and parted her lips only to be silenced by a warning glare from Zeus himself. He turned back to the council once more as Hera returned to her place beside his throne once more. Though her face was neutral, those eyes gleamed with a ferocity Persephone knew had been contained for far too long. She had always silently rooted for that treacherous beast, hoping to one day see the queen unleash herself. But she never had, and something told Persephone she never would. 

“The process is complex yet relatively painless, especially in comparison to the agony of holding onto such immense power as they continue to age. Hecate,” he gestured three thrones down to the goddess who dipped her head submissively, “will now speak on how it will be done.”

As Hecate, in her Morning form, cleared her throat and began to speak on the delicate magic that didn’t sound at all painless, Persephone’s attention was not on the three sided goddess— though she did wonder whether those whorls would continue to glow should they be split apart beneath her nails. No, Persephone did not look at Hecate even as she spoke and instead returned her fern-lined attention back to Hera only to find that the Queen of the Gods was already staring back. Not at Persephone’s eyes, but at her hand that fit perfectly within Hades’. The False Queen stared at that connection, at the firm yet gentle touch that was both warning and decree. Hera lifted her gaze sharply and for a single heartbeat, queen regarded queen. Neither broke away. 

_ Stop intimidating the royalty, _ Hades chided.

_ Intimidate her majesty, the queen?  _ She drawled . _ I would never _

A chime of his laughter faded out in her mindscape as she relented, lowering her eyes from the level glare of ‘her royal highness’ _.  _ What an empty title to describe the goddess seated beside the smug king.

When Hades had offered Persephone queendom, she had been adamant in her opposition and fear had clutched her tight. All she knew of being queen was what she’d witnessed of Hera’s reign. How she was nothing more than an ornament, enslaved to Zeus’ side for eternity with no real leverage in the palace except for what he bestowed upon her. But Hades had assured her, 

“You will be my equal in every way.” 

“Will they fear me?” she’d asked, raw from heartache but aware of her own worth. “Will they fear me as much as you?”

“Would you like them to?” he’d asked with a gentle smile, already knowing the answer.

“Yes.”

“Then they will fear you more.”

The first oath he ever made to her. Her eyes wandered the Chamber— to the balconies and ring of thrones— as Hecate concluded her morbid presentation. She caught a great many warry glares in her direction— to the crown atop her head and the throne of life and death she sat upon. Hades had been right, and evidence of his oath was all around them.

Persephone’s ears pricked up and her focus was drawn back to the God King at the line she'd been waiting for.

"The Chamber of Council is now open for discussion; then, voting will commence."

There were many reasons for their attendance, and this precise moment was one. Persephone didn't dare glance upward to the balcony she felt the God Killer's presence in because she knew Hades was sending a nearly invisible ribbon of smoke carrying a breathed message to listen, to pay close attention. Zeus' manipulation was deep and true; while some were obvious in falling prey, many were not— and on the flip side, there were some who were in secret opposition but were too afraid to speak out. Her husband wanted to ensure Percy would know his enemies and his allies, and Hades himself needed to know who was on which side for other reasons. Zeus was skilled enough to make two faced advocates and they couldn’t afford to be blindsided.

Beside her, Hades sat with that preternatural stillness of his as they listened in silence. Listened, as he had commanded Percy to do.

Persephone wasn't surprised when it was Demeter who spoke first. As she did, their eyes connected for a moment and Persephone could hear the last time they'd ever spoken through that icy glare.

“Did you eat the seeds of your own free will?” Her mother had whispered with disbelief and hope planted in every word.

She’d never forget holding her mother’s glare and speaking with such solidity that the wildflowers beneath her bare feet had begun to wither as if in testament.

“Yes,” she’d said.

And the hope infused disbelief had turned to vile disgust as she’d spat, “Then you are no daughter of mine.”

As she now listened to her mother speak in support of Zeus’  _ ‘brilliant’, ‘selfless’ _ actions, Persephone inspected her fingernails to keep from bursting into shadowflame. The pastel pink lacquer was chipped in a few places and there was dirt, dried blood, and ichor trapped beneath their modest length from her garden and recent visit to the Fields of Punishment— her way of relaxing her mind and essence before this meeting. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Hermes voiced with a nod to Demeter before gesturing towards Hecate. “And this does sound like an adequate solution to any future conflicts.”

From the other side of the ring of thrones, Apollo cleared his throat. “If you’re finished stroking their egos, I’ve got a few questions for his royal highness.”

Zeus didn’t look amused in the slightest, but waved for his son to speak.

“If you truly wished peace, love, and butterflies for them, then why have they both had to endure Tartarus? And why, oh ancient one with your infinite wisdom, didn’t the two of you,” he pointed a finger at Hecate, “create multiple beasts to aid the demigods in battle? Better yet, why didn’t you go down there and help them yourselves?”

Zeus smiled at his son. “Nico di Angelo chose to journey Tartarus, as did Perseus, and we can all agree the experience strengthened them both.” There was a humorless bark of laughter from the demigod’s balcony above. Zeus ignored it, his voice smooth as a freshly sharpened blade. “As for assisting the battle… I apologize, I was unaware that you were on the frontlines when Echidna’s army descended. Since you were there, pray tell, how many ‘beasts’ would have been helpful to the demigod legion?”

The luminous aura clinging to Apollo pulsed but before he could speak, Zeus addressed the council. “It is nothing new to stay out of the demigods’ feuds and prophecies, that has been the way of the universe since the very first was born.”

Frank tensed as god after god nodded in agreement. He glanced to his left where Will was downright trembling with rage. The healer had his eyes clamped tight, shaking his head slowly as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. To his right, Annabeth rubbed at the knot in her shoulder, her lips a thin line.

Poseidon, ever the diplomat, sat forward in his throne, the water within rippling as he did. “Your questions are valid, Apollo, however, the king speaks true. It is not our place to interfere. And as for the topic of the ballot, I would rather not see my own son be torn apart by these strange powers.”

Four thrones down, Ares said gruffly with a hungry gleam in his eye, “Power is power. What you’ve got up there is a weapon of mass destruction— I can think of more than one uses for a God Killer. Get him in the military, he’d have the mortal lands all sorted out in a few years.”

“Too unpredictable,” Athena tarnished Ares' frightfully dreamy expression with a shake of her head. Then her voice dripped with spite as she said, “Perseus has always been unruly, even before the manifestation of these new abilities. The chances of his mastering the power is extraordinarily low. And as for the other two demigods, reduction is logical, there is no reason for such excess.” She slid those steel grey eyes to Zeus with a nod of allegiance, “This world does not need overpowered children.”

Zeus smiled at her and was so pleased with the way things were going that he drowned out the three minor gods who voiced opposition. He sat back in his throne as Demeter and Athena struck down each meager argument swiftly and thoroughly. Though he did listen in as Aphrodite cleared her throat eloquently from behind the fan that she lowered.

“Personally, I find the notion of removing one's powers entirely quite a savage, unimaginative response to beings we do not fully understand.” She took a long pause. “However, a severance of a soul bond such as the one Nico and Perseus shared is not to be taken lightly. There is nothing of the likes I can compare it to due to its unique qualities and I would…” she swept those doe eyes to Poseidon, “I would not be entirely surprised if your son descended into insanity.”

“Do you not think that assessment a bit extreme?” the god of healing scoffed.

Aphrodite waved her collapsed fan in his general direction, “I am no prophet, though I have known a great many broken hearts to infect the mind. You are entitled to your own professional opinion, of course. I mean only to say that a wounded soul is not so easily mended, and I for one, would prefer my children not be on the receiving end of unresolved trauma such as this.”

As the discussions drug on, Percy descended further and further into an unsettling calm that Leo hoped was good news and his face was now a slate of stone that revealed nothing. A voice in the back of Leo’s head was still on edge, telling him to run from this place, and it was torture for him to sit there and listen as god after god voiced their support. Argument grew sparse and with it, hope. And Hades was just sitting there, Persephone too, doing absolutely nothing. Sitting and listening. Their expressions never changed. 

Leo’s anxiety only grew as the minutes ticked by— maybe he’d been wrong, maybe they’d all been foolish thinking that any of these immortals cared about them. His cheeks grew flush. Stupid, stupid he’d been so  _ stupid  _ to even think that. Hades and Persephone had one another and eternal life spread before them, why would they care about Nico? To them and to every god in the Chamber, their mortal lifespans were the blink of an eye— worthless. That’s how Leo felt sitting in a velvet chair behind a golden rail with a God Killer to his left and two immortal kings below. Despite the intense desire to run, he wasn’t looking forward to returning to Camp— not when he’d have to tell Hazel that not only had she lost her brother, but now most of her powers too. He was trying to untangle his thoughts enough to figure out how he’d break the news when Zeus’ commanding bellow sounded through the room in a way that demanded attention.

“I thank you all for seeing the justice in this difficult decision,” he said. “As you all know, my foremost concern is and has always been the safety and wellbeing of the demigods as a collective. It disheartens me that we must go forth with this, but I hope you are all as comforted as I am in knowing that soon these three will have to suffer no longer...”

Persephone had let her thoughts wander to better times— teaching Nico how to dry herbs and create tasteful flower arrangements, watching fondly from her garden as Hades showed him how to train the newest litter of hellhounds— and had not removed her hand from Hades’ to keep stable. Diverted from anger and all-consuming thoughts of revenge, the memories burned like a shot of whiskey and a lump grew in her throat. And although she'd set her mind free to roam, when Hades finally whispered that single word down the bond, all distraction systematically evaporated from her mind.

**_Now_ **

Persephone’s rage exploded. 

Shadowfire engulfed the Queen of the Underworld and when it extinguished a heartbeat later, the throne of moss and bone was empty.

* * *

No one saw it coming, especially not Jason who’d been watching Persephone intently to try and decipher how it was possible for her to look so relaxed, so unaffected by the horrifying things the council was saying. No, he didn’t see it coming— nothing in her face or posture had provided any sort of warning. Jason was just as shocked as everyone else when her throne erupted in ash colored flame and goosebumps prickled on his arms beneath the long sleeves as a burst of cold air filled the Chamber. He didn’t know much about the strange delineation of fire but he did know that shadowfire burned cold with the same intensity that normal fire burned hot.

As suddenly as it appeared, every lick of flame vanished— the queen with it. Because in one moment she’d been seated in her throne with a hand wrapped within Hades’... and the next, she was standing at the top of those two steps with either hand gripping the arms of that golden throne. Mere inches from Zeus, the King of the Gods instinctually pressed himself to the back of his seat.

Gone was the crown of hellhound teeth and calla lilies, now a delicate halo-like diadem of pink stemmed roses. Gone were the ethereal fabrics of her field-frolecking dress, replaced by a full body of scaled armor with the same shifting colors as her mate’s horns. Deep crimson shifting to that of bruised purple and back. 

Leo gaped. He leaned forward, nearly falling over the railing to better see. The intricacy of the metal plating, the dexterity of their assembly that would surely provide complete range of motion— a second skin of hand painted celestial bronze. It even flexed with her every breath, expanding with her ribcage.

Handiwork of that caliber could be achieved by only one set of hands. Leo’s eyes went wide as he recognized what this was. Just the other day he’d fallen asleep at his desk after reworking through the Parthenos harness equations for the hundredth time and a familiar voice had spoken to him, saying something along the line of symbols holding more power than words ever could. That’s what this was— not just armor, but a symbol of Hephaestus’ allegiance to the Queen of the Underworld. Aphrodite came to the same realization and turned in her throne with an arched brow to her husband. He gave her a genuine smile and to Leo’s surprise, she returned it— in fact, she almost seemed pleased.

Leo pushed from the rail back into his chair and looked around excitedly to the other demigods, but they were all fixated on the scene below and he guessed none of them were focused on the engineering marvel that was the queen’s outfit, but instead on the fact she was mere inches from the King of the Gods. He reigned his excitement as anxiety rushed back to the forefront of his mind.

Persephone held Zeus’ gaze that had momentarily flashed with genuine surprise, and let him look deep into her eyes. Let him see the wildness in the sun soaked glens held in each iris. Let him see the love of life and promises of slow, painful death in the lightless spots. She did not yield a single step, though she straightened her spine that was now chilled from the integrated silver now bracing it at the back of her suit. The sensation grounded her.

“How high and mighty you sound after murdering a child for a golden  _ tiara _ ,” she spit the word down at him like poison on her tongue. “How exhausting was it to kiss everyone of these god’s asses and convince them you did it for the sake of their children? How—”

Thunder crackled out of nowhere and Zeus made to yell, but Persephone slammed a hand coated in shadowfire down, purposefully missing his hand by a hair's width. The arm of his throne hissed as it turned subzero. She gave a sweet smile. “You had your turn to speak, do not interrupt me.”

She straightened once more and resumed, “How long did it take you to write all of these pretty words? And to rehearse them? I might’ve had some miniscule shred of pity for all the effort you put into destroying lives, but then again, you always have had such a knack for manipulation haven’t you? Bit of a hobby?”

He bared his teeth. She bared hers.

Thunder cracked again and storm clouds that flashed with lightning began to gather within the Chamber beneath that domed ceiling high above.

“You  _ dare  _ accuse m— ” 

Her sickly sweet smile widened steadily, like a knife wound, serrated by pearlescent teeth. The broadness of her grin distorted the serenity of her face. It was jarring. And yet, her voice was calm, even as she regarded the King of Kings.

“Yes,” she said as easily as if she were discussing the weather. “I very much do.”

Zeus’ eyes flicked over her left shoulder as if signaling to someone and before she could so much as turn, a voice disarmed her in a way no weapon or power ever could.

“Belladonna.” 

At that name… that name she hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime, she froze. It stripped her of everything she was, everything she’d become. She couldn’t feel the comforting chill of silver bracing her spine that reminded her of Hades’ touch. Zeus’ lips twitched so only she could see his own smile transform into something truly grotesque. From behind her, that voice sounded again and Persephone fought every urge not to flinch. 

“Get down from there.”

She turned atop the platform slowly. Her rage stumbled, faltered, at the sight of Artemis aiming an arrow at the space between her eyes. And suddenly it all became clear— the huntresses averted eyes upon Persephone’s entrance and any other attempts to catch her gaze throughout the discussions. Dread filled her like oversaturated soil. No. No. No no no. Zeus had taken her son, not this. Not this too.

“What?” it was all she could think to say as Artemis kept that cold hunter’s gaze on her from behind the taut string.

“Be sensible.”

Stiffly, Persephone obeyed. She descended the stairs and then paused. Not caring who saw or what anyone else thought, Persephone didn’t hide the hurt from her voice as she asked breathlessly, “What are you doing?”

“You should listen to the king’s words. There is truth and sense to them. I am sorry for your loss, Belladonna, I truly am. I know how much he meant to you,” she nodded towards Hades, breaking her perfect form for half a breath, “to you both.”

It didn’t make sense. Artemis  _ despised  _ her father. She hated the palace and Olympus as much as Persephone herself did. 

“What… what are you saying?”

The arrow did not waver. The Chamber was silent, not a breath to be heard. 

“You must be realistic. This much power… it should not exist, especially not in the hands of men.”

A sound to their left— Apollo rising from his throne. The temperature plummeted beneath his shock as his golden aura dampened and the heat radiating from him with it.  Mouth agape, jaw slack, eyes wide, the god of many looked at his sister as if she’d shot him. He ripped his eyes from her, frantically looking up to his son with a brokenness that made Will forget about the pain in his palms . 

Artemis refused to look at her brother. Nothing existed but her bow, her arrow, and her target. 

_ Breathe. Breathe, Persephone, _ Hades voiced down the bond.  _ Say the word and she’s dead _ . His voice was strained though. He knew what this betrayal was doing to her— could feel it through their bond. It burned. It burned. It— she reached for the shadows and to her call they willingly obeyed, cooling her essence and soul. When she spoke again it was without weakness. Her lip curled in a silent snarl, darkness embracing her, settling beneath the scales of her armor.

“If you’re going to shoot me, then do it. Otherwise put that ridiculous thing away.”

Recognizing that tone, Artemis blinked. She lowered them both, though kept the arrow knocked.

“Look,” the huntress tried to reason, “we all got lucky with Nico— that Zeus could reach him in time and prevent catastrophe.” She glanced up in the direction of Percy, “We cannot afford to take that chance again.”

"My son is dead, I do not call that  _ luck _ ," she hissed through clenched teeth. Artemis did not flinch, even as Persephone's glare burned her as if laced with shadowfire. "If not for this “excessive” power, as Athena says, and if not for a  _ male _ , we would not be discussing this at all— instead would be weeping over all we had lost and fleeing Gaea's reign."

"The power is unpredictable, you cannot refute that,” Artemis shot back, “nor the simple fact that a half mortal body is incapable of wieldin-”

" _ Moonbeam _ ," Persephone spat the name out and for the first time, Artemis’ cold indifference shattered as if she'd been struck, "do you really think your hunters would be safe in a world where Gaea had risen? Or that the woods would remain yours? Whatever would you do without forests or huntresses to protect?"

Artemis’ nose scrunched like a wolf then smoothed, she was trying to keep her composure. “With the powers he possessed, Nico could have killed every single demigod on that battlefield. He could have wreaked more havoc than the monsters, could have-”

“Do you even hear yourself speak?! The whole lot of you,” Persephone yelled to the council, whirling on them all, “with your ‘ifs’ and your ‘could haves’.” She turned back to Artemis, practically snarling, “What do you want? A gold star? Of course there was possibility that he ‘could have’ done all of that and more, but what all of you seem to get off on ignoring is the fact that he  _ did not _ . With all of this ‘immense’, ‘uncontrollable’, ‘too much for a half-blood’ power inside of him, he  _ did not _ . Without training or any substantive knowledge about what being a God Killer truly entails, he did not harm a single one of your precious children that you’ve all done  _ so much _ to care for!”

Artemis parted her lips, but Persephone ripped the opportunity from her without remorse.

“Nico di Angelo,” she said with dark flame on her tongue, “saved  _ thousands  _ the day he sacrificed his life for the sake of  _ your  _ children— your weapons and mortars and hunters. He alone did more more for them than your righteous king has ever done— more than any of you have  _ ever  _ done for your own children.”

She tilted her head to the demigods, looking at Percy directly for the first time before pinning Zeus once more with that lethal glare. She didn’t care that her back was exposed to Artemis and the still knocked arrow— the hunter could shoot her in the back for all she cared; not only would it be fitting, but also likely to hurt far less than the betrayal she’d just committed.

“You dare strip them of their abilities? If you cursed them with life, you too are cursed with the abilities you saw fit to sew into their DNA.”

“And you,” she turned to Poseidon, “I am  _ ashamed  _ of you. Not taking responsibility for your actions? I thought that was beneath you. I thought you of all actually held a shred of genuine love for your boy.”

“Of course I do,” the sea god was quick to retort. 

She bared her teeth at him, “Then why are you allowing this?”

"Because," Zeus interjected from his throne with an icy chill, "he knows what the boy needs."

“Oh, don’t you call him  _ boy _ ,” Persephone hissed through her teeth. “He’s never been allowed to be just a boy.”

Poseidon rose from his throne— all the fury of the seven seas thrashing within him. The marble floor groaned as the Earth Shaker said to the dark queen, “You have no right to claim children as your own.” 

Persephone stared at him silently for a moment. There was a slight tilt to her head as if a wolf contemplating whether to rip out their prey’s throat or heart first. 

_ It’s time,  _ her beloved said. And so, she reached up and plucked a rose from her diadem then proceeded to walk around, plucking petals absentmindedly with Poseidon’s words still echoing off curved walls. The pink petals drifted to the ground, withering and dying once they touched the holy marble beneath her bare feet.

Finally, she paused and stated to no one in particular, “In two days time, I will be taking Percy Jackson to the Underworld where he will learn to control the full extent of his powers in the safety of a land where casualties and collateral damage are no issue.” 

Silence and then Ares burst into a fit of laughter and Hermes huffed in disbelief while the crowd and council let out similar reactions.

The Queen of the Gods looked down her nose, chin held so high that Persephone could imagine how easily it would be to slice clean through that elongated porcelain neck. “Any other demands?” 

“Why yes, actually, thank you for asking,” she purred. “How should I put this so you all understand?” She made a great show of pacing back and forth within the ring of thrones and then stopped, her voice deadpan as she said, “If anyone takes so much as a drop of power from Jason Grace or Hazel Levesque during that time, I'll burn your favorite parts with shadowfire and drink the marrow from your bones.” Her face lit up, the gleam in her eye nothing short of feral. The snickers and whispers died out. “How's that for clarity? Anyone confused?"

Everyone turned to Zeus who was silent, sitting back in his throne with an arm propped up, chin resting on his fist. 

“I am just wondering,” he finally spoke, hiding his ire behind a mask of impenetrable authority, “what made you so bold as to think you could show up in a chamber of democratic vote regarding such a serious manner, and threaten the council?”

There was nothing more Zeus hated than disrespect for his position and unpredictability— two things she had an abundance of. She could feel the electricity in the air— he was  _ furious…  _ but nothing compared to what he’d be very very soon. Persephone smiled inwardly. It was time to strengthen her poking.

And so, the goddess of light and dark removed an invisible speck of dirt from the shoulder of her scaled armor, refusing to meet the gaze she felt boring through her that demanded attention. “A true queen never threatens… only makes promises she intends to keep.”

Artemis intervened as she felt the air in the room shift dangerously. Again, she tried to reason. “This is an Extended Council meeting, we are here to  _ vote _ . And besides,” she said after Zeus looked to her expectantly, “if you were to take the God Killer, what’s to say you wouldn’t manipulate him to fit your own agenda?”

Several nods from the council and a smug smile from Zeus.

Persephone let out a humorless laugh so forcefully that tears sprung in those eyes of deathless fern. 

“Oh  _ please _ , you wouldn’t know manipulative behavior if it slapped your brother in the face.” The bow nearly slipped from Artemis’ hand and Apollo’s aura dimmed in shock. Persephone didn’t care. If bloodshed is what the huntress desired, then Persephone would pay in full. She addressed the council, her eyes sweeping over each and every one, “Your  _ almighty king _ is the only one with an agenda and I’m beginning to question the sanity of everyone in this room who’s blind enough not to see that.”

_ Reason with them _ , Hades said to her,  _ you’re gaining support _

Persephone gave the slightest of nods to him before closing her eyes. After a deep breath, she assured, “Percy would be taught how to think, not what to think. He would be taught how to expand his mind— what he’d fill it with is not up to me… nor anyone for that matter.” She finally met Zeus’ storm filled eyes, “I find it curious that you are so insecure about your claim to the throne that someone you repeatedly deem a mere ‘boy’ strikes such fear in you. But what baffles me most are the neurotic lengths you are willing to go for the sake of your own shortcomings.”

Oh he was fuming now, the surface of his carefully secured mask began to fissure, and it was an effort for Persephone to keep a straight face and even tone. 

“Do you know what I think?” she asked rhetorically before answering with a voice that dripped of pity. “That you act like a human tyrant who is all too aware that his reign is coming to an end.”

The innocent grin at the end elicited the desired effect and Persephone felt a jolt of adrenaline as the nebulous clouds above cast the room in darkness and flashed with holy, punishing bolds of light. Zeus worked his jaw with murder in his eye as if holding onto that last strand of composure— she could practically see the gears turning in his mind as he decided whether or not throwing all of his schemes to the wind and striking her down right then and there was worth it. She could see him teetering on the edge and imagined his inner thoughts of:  _ if I give in and lash out, I will look guilty. _ And Persephone smiled as that final shove was delivered in the form of a flat voice.

“The God Killer comes with me.”

Everyone turned to the source of that command, tracking it to the god framed in writhing shadows. 

“ _ Excuse _ me?” Zeus’ words were punctuated with an especially loud crackle from above.

King to king— Hades did not flinch. He held those nebulous eyes that flashed with miniature bolts of lightning, straightening the cuffs of his jacket as he rose to stand before his dark throne.

“The God Killer comes with me,” he repeated as shadows flared behind him, his voice just as plain as the first time. 

“His fate will be decided by the coun-”

“His fate was decided well before you ever thought of killing my son.”

As if a flame snuffed of oxygen, silence befell the Chamber.

Zeus’ nose flared and he made to speak but the Silent One raised a finger to his lip and Zeus sputtered. Without a single word, Hades lowered his finger and held his closed hand up for all to see. And then, he opened it.

A wave of gasps and hushed pleas for salvation and mercy filled the air from the balconies above. The King of the Gods froze though his eyes darted from palm to onyx gaze and back as he tried for words. 

“You swore an ichor oath?” he breathed.

“Ichor oaths are forbidden,” Athena blurted out, a warning in her voice but also… uncertainty. “Enforced by you with banishment to Tartarus as punishment.”

Death trained that impossibly dark gaze onto the Goddess of Wisdom. “I am God of Oaths. That particular punishment does not apply to me— a judicial privilege you were first to sign off on, if I remember correctly, in a Council meeting held seven and a half centuries ago.”

“Well yes but—”

“It is the only thing my son ever asked of me,” Hades retorted with a finality that silenced her.

Piper leaned forward in her seat— not so much at Hades’ words, but more so because never had she sensed genuine fear from the God King… so much  _ fear _ . It was glorious.

“What did you swear the boy,” Ares blustered with a growl. 

Hades didn’t answer to the god of war. Instead his voice remained that insufferable calm as he recited to the God King, “ _‘On the river Styx, I promise on this day that should you be struck down, I will treat Perseus Jackson as kin.’_ ” 

An Ichor Oath sworn on the Styx. Every single god present leaned forward in their seat. All eyes were drawn to the sliver of raised scar tissue as it throbbed with a faint golden glow in Death’s palm.

Percy jolted from his chair. With his mouth slightly agape, he reached forward, bracing his arms as a white knuckled grip clasped onto the golden balcony railing. The gods’ attention all turned to him as one. If looks could kill, the one Demeter pinned him with would have sent him straight to Tartarus. 

“Just because he is under your protection does not make him exempt from a ruling of the Council,” she said with poison on her tongue.

“You are correct. Athena,” he said without so much as turning to the goddess, keeping those black eyes on Zeus, “what is the one thing that can delay a ruling?”

All the gods turned their attention from Percy to her. Annabeth wracked her brain for the answer, but all train of thought vanished as she noticed her mother hesitate. Athena  _ never  _ hesitated. Any and all rage towards the goddess momentarily faded and Annabeth’s ears strained to hear the response.

“Formal declaration of war.”

Beside Annabeth, Frank’s eyes widened with disbelief and he jerked his head to her. She nodded slowly. Because that was absolutely correct. Just like their nymph guide had said: this was no mortal government. But this… the knot in her shoulder tightened as the implication of a war between Olympus and the Underworld dawned on her. Her initial expectations had been correct— Hades really had walked into his brother’s domain prepared to draw blood.

“You cannot be serious,” Hecate managed to say.

Hades turned to the accomplice of his son’s murderer and envisioned the thousands of ways he could tear one of his oldest friends apart. The weight of his horns kept his mind clear, focused, even as cold rage festered in the pit of his soul. Give a goddess enough gemstone panes to make a Spire and she’ll repay by crafting a beast to take away one of the only things you’ve ever loved. The poetry wasn’t lost on him.

“Deathly so,” he affirmed, ancient malice behind every word.

Hades’ words punched a hole through Percy’s chest, impaling him to the very core. It took him a moment to realize that sensation was actually something entirely different. The shattered soul bond with it’s jagged ends felt like they were ripping him apart from the inside out. His entire body went light and the edges of his vision began to blur.  _ Brother…. _ Even in death, Nico had saved him. His grip on the railing went slack and he fell to the carpeted balcony floor. Will was out of his seat in an instant, placing a hand on Percy’s shoulder who shook his head as if he could make this all go away. Percy couldn’t hear Will’s hushed words of support— only the voice of Death reached his ears.

“And with Percy Jackson as kin, I am fully within the rights of Extended Council to take such actions.” He then crossed the distance between the other king, close enough that Zeus felt the chill of shadows that crept up the stairs to his throne. A tendril darker than the rest transformed into a Black Kingsnake made of fog. It slithered weightlessly up, up, up then turned back into smoke to curl around to God King’s ear. 

_ You are capable of a great many things, dear brother,  _ it hissed _ , but what is justice against wealth? What is sky against death? Do you think this a battle you would win? _

“So what do you say,” Persephone drawled, pulling Zeus’ attention back to her as Hades’ message echoed in his ear, “let us train Percy Jackson, and avoid a war?”

Enraged as he was, there was hesitation in his eye as that teetering resumed. 

_ Come on you stupid bastard _ , she thought to herself— then to Hades:  _ he really picked  _ now  _ of all times to repress that ridiculous ego??  _

_ If the circumstances were different,  _ Hades grumbled back in agreement, _ I might’ve been proud _

Zeus’ brow furrowed as if he were trying to figure something out and then finally said with a tone of conclusion, “You will turn him into a weapon of revenge.”

Persephone laughed gleefully down the bond and Hades actually rolled his eyes with a huff of amusement. 

_ If this doesn’t push him over the edge, nothing will _ , she said to him slyly. _ Watch and learn…  _

“I have no need of a weapon,” Persephone flashed her teeth, the cruel smile painted on her face that of a challenge. “And as for revenge, I’m in no rush… the longer it takes for you to fall, the more time I have to plan all the ways I want to repay you. The one true inevitability is death and whenever you do succumb to it— whether that be a few years or a hundred thousand— I will be your queen. And  _ you  _ will bow to  _ me _ .”

The bolt left Zeus’ hand before Jason could so much as register it’s formation; but a pocket of darkness opened out of nowhere at Hades’ silent command— a gaping maw that engulfed the lightning moments before striking multichromatic scales.

There was a pause of wild, heaving breaths, and then Jason could do nothing but watch as his father surged from that golden throne for the Queen of the Underworld.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So this is probably the most ambitious update I've done so far-- lots of characters to juggle and events to keep track of but I really hope you enjoy it!  
> Starting next update, things will heavily focus back in on Percy and his journey, I'm just having fun developing the gods and I'm hoping that'll make the ending so much more impactful, but who knows? not me lol
> 
> This one took a lot of time and planning so I hope you like it!!  
> Thanks to anyone who has left a comment or kudos <3 <3 <3 
> 
> TW: Zeus' abusive tendencies are actually described, so I've put a {TW} before that section. This entire update is pretty intense so, as always, if you think I should put anymore warnings, please let me know and I'll do so right away!

The God King seemed to hover in the air as he surged from the golden throne— his movements slowed not by reality, but Apollo’s own fear. A rage so potent with features pulsating white light and the flickering at Zeus’ left hand as a bolt took form midair was all too familiar. 

Apollo knew what that spear of pure energy felt like, how it’s strike was so disarming that nothing else existed once it connected. He knew the momentary blindness afterwards intimately, knew the sensation of seizing muscles and simultaneous paralysis in those endless moments when the lightning passed through— mercilessly leaving no nerve untouched. Though not directed at him, his whole body still reacted; eyes clenched shut, hands jerking for the arms of his throne as he flinched. In medicine it came in handy being able to slow the perception of time— granting more time to think, act, observe— but when his father was involved, the gift was a curse. He was trapped in the endless moment, not breathing, not blinking, until a chime of laughter startled him back to real-time. 

The Queen of the Underworld leapt clear over the bolt that speared for her scale-armored heart. It collided with her throne instead, going up in smoke as the greenery was electrified. In mere seconds, only the frame of bones remained. 

A bellowed command from Zeus had Hermes preparing to launch from his throne for the balconies up above as the king turned back towards his prey— a killing rage rippling down every muscle and feature. But before Hermes could carry out the command, Apollo shouted, causing the god to turn towards him as his palm burst with holy light. Hermes fell from the air, crashing to the marble floor with both hands pressed to his eyes. 

The messenger’s wails echoed in the Chamber and Ares pushed from his throne, spear in hand, and took aim at the balcony Hermes had been flying for. Apollo launched himself at the god of war, who was cunning enough to turn when light erupted from his hand again. Ares pivoted on one foot, changed the trajectory of his weapon with a sadistic grin, and hurled it with all his might. The spearhead only tore through Apollo’s cloak and grazed the side of his ribs thanks to a burst of glitter that derailed it’s flight. There was no time to thank Aphrodite or mull over the statement of her action, for Apollo was bracing himself for the sting of a flung dagger, and another, and another because in taking the hits, he was able to get closer and closer and— 

The assault of flashing blades stopped all at once and Ares doubled over, coughing violently enough to paint the marble beneath his combat boots with splatters of ichor. The plague Apollo had breathed into his brother was fast acting and disarming enough to render Ares useless which granted Apollo a moment to search out Death.

Unified by the same desperation, Apollo’s eyes found Hades’ who gave a tight nod and sent a slithering shadow up the draft of chaos to the balcony— a message to the demigods, likely telling them to flee or return to Camp. But to his left, Demeter saw the exchange and lashed out with vines, sending them to choke the exit and prevent their escape. Turning from Hades, Apollo ripped the cloak from his own shoulders and reached for the quiver at his back, willing a bow to appear in his other hand. Though his side ached and chest wept ichor from his brother’s attacks as he got into perfect form, Apollo pushed everything to the back of his mind and took aim for the goddesses brow. The cord groaned as he pulled it back, stopping a hair's width from his cheek. His taught fingers were about to release when someone stepped directly into his line of sight.

Apollo stared beyond the length of his knocked arrow and down the one aimed at him, locking eyes with Artemis who did the same. 

A chill went down his spine as his body revolted at the sight of his bow aimed in his sister’s direction. He lowered his weapon. 

She did not.

****************************

_‘Get out now… Go to camp and do not leave the safety of the barrier…’_

That’s what the tendril of darkness said to the demigods— slithering into their minds like a snake. They’d barely had a moment to startle at one another before vines began to climb, choking their exit with thick greenery and strong roots.

Kneeling beside Percy who still sat on the floor, Will placed a bandaged hand on Percy’s knees that were drawn up to his face. The demigod rocked back and forth with wild, unseeing eyes. Will’s attention was split and he kept looking down below, trying to steal glimpses through the railing of the chaos, then back to Percy who bordered on hyperventilation. 

Though they moved at inhuman speeds, there were moments where the king and queen slowed or paused. Will had seen that look on Percy countless times during battle— the feral smile of the queen— but right now, the son of Poseidon was lost in his own mind, likely drowning in Hades’ declaration of the ichor oath. Will couldn’t afford to let the news sink in; he didn’t have time to sink. Percy brought both hands to his ears, curling into himself more, and Will spoke in even tones in hopes of calming those frantic breaths. 

It wasn’t exactly the calmest environment to ease an overstimulated mind; especially when all the demigod’s instincts were flaring with alarms of danger, especially with the commotion from the other balconies as minor gods cheered or scrambled to flee, especially when Demeter’s vines continued to slither up and over the railing towards the thickening barricade at their balconies entrance. 

The others were trying to break through, but wherever Leo burned, the dead fell and new grew back. Will’s steady stream of comfort didn’t pause even as he looked back down to see his father. The moment Artemis stepped in front of Demeter with her bow drawn and posture unyielding, Will’s heart plummeted. From beside him, Jason was the only other demigod to see, for Annabeth was yelling over the sounds of Zeus’ conquest to Frank. The son of the plague ridden god shifted into a bear so large that everyone had to squeeze against the other end of the balcony. The crowding worsened Percy’s condition but Will reassured him best he could. 

With claws bigger than Will’s head, Frank tore through the vegetation and Leo ducked beneath a furry limb to cauterize the sheared edges. Will wasted no time in grabbing for Percy, but his knees buckle at the larger demigod’s weight. Jason and Leo were instantly there, taking either side of Percy’s trembling form and the three hauled the unresponsive God Killer to his feet. And then they all broke into a run for the opening before bounding down the stairs. 

Annabeth and Piper took the lead, having memorized the path through the palace and the others followed, tearing through gilded halls with painted ceilings their only witness. Frank shifted back mid-stride and flanked Annabeth, his bow drawn and ready. Will tried not to look at it— he had a feeling that even now his father still stood frozen before his sister, bows aimed at each other. Two sides of the same coin. 

Piper led them down a wrong corridor and she bit out a curse. Just as the entourage made to turn back, they all went completely still. 

A booming sound rushed through the hall and their ears popped as if the air had lost pressure. Annabeth set her jaw and palmed her dagger then urged them to follow, but Will watched Jason whose eyes were wide as they spurred into a mad dash once again. The Roman didn’t slow when he took more of Percy’s weight as Leo tired, but the wide eyes remained. The terror that gleamed there sent a chill down Will’s spine. He read it easily.

Zeus was going to kill the queen.

* * *

A deafening crack shook the very foundation of the Chamber as Zeus’ bolt struck Persephone’s throne. She was already moving for the other side of the throne ring by the time it connected, the flowers and greenery eviscerated by the time she landed.

The God King whipped around only to find her now standing atop the second step to his throne. She smiled in a mockery of innocence and made to lower herself upon it. Colorless light illuminated the side of his cruel features as another bolt took form in his raised hand. 

“You are no queen,” he seethed through clenched teeth.

Persephone did not deign to reply. The constellation of freckles speckled on her face shifted at the widening smile on her lip. She sat down. 

The gold trembled beneath her and she knew Hades was warping the material— _his_ material. Whatever shape it took unhinged the last bit of restraint in the King of the Gods. _Good_. 

With a deep breath, she braced herself, relishing in the solidity of her reinforced spine and the scaled armor that covered her. Zeus loosed his bolt. Throwing out a hand, shadows raced from behind her down the length of her arm and over her fingers like a viper. They shot from her to meet the rod of lightning head-on. Her darkness embraced the light, enveloping it— devouring it whole. Zeus’ eyes jerked to hers incredulously. 

Her rose diademed head tilted in animalistic observance and that soil-brown hair slid across her shoulder with its many layers, catching on the scales of her armor. The hidden wildness to her burned brightly in a nature of nature itself.

“You know _nothing_ of queens,” she practically snarled. 

Oh, how Persephone wished, yearned, _ached_ to burn the heart right out of his chest with shadowfire or to set the Chamber aflame and let every being within wither like forgotten petals. But no, her purpose wasn’t to kill him… even as her vision ebbed with wrath. No. She was meant to rile him to the edge of insanity and make it clear to these brainwashed fools who supported him who the real monster was. In secret, the God King prided himself on being the master of manipulation; she had come to claim that title for herself.

So she sat there, upon his throne, with olive flesh that glowed a dull grey at the shadowfire dancing beneath the sinew, and speared Zeus with nothing but her gaze.

And when the fury warped his features into something truly deranged, she took another grounding breath and waited. She did not fight the torrent of air that shot from him and wrapped itself around her torso, constricting like a formless snake before ripping her from his desecrated throne. 

She let herself be removed, but when she was flung to the marble floor, she got to her feet in an instant just as a bolt of lightning hurled towards her. She ducked just in time and slipped past his defensive, willing a petal to grow and wither in her palm, crushing it in a fist that swung with her bounding strides. 

Dislodging a specific scale of her armor that was in fact a concealed blade, Persephone used the momentum of her sprint to blow the powdered flower into Zeus’ face. It was only a heartbeat of distraction and he took a reeling step back, but she was ready. The dagger drove up in a whistling arc and before he could register the slash where neck and under-jaw connected, she was well out of reach. 

He brought a hand to the cut; it was shallow and the ichor that welled did not spill as she often dreamed. The murderous glint in Zeus’ eye told her that he understood. A warning, a threat. She’d kept hidden from the gods’ prying eyes all these years meaning none knew what she was capable of. Not even Zeus. 

She opened her awareness to the balconies and other gods; whispers about how the Kore they’d all known hadn’t been so quick on her feet, so aggressive, so violent. The Kore they’d all known and loved for her simplicity and innocence was dead. Demeter had said as much to her. And it was beneath the surface lands that Persephone had honed her skills in secret. The speed, the cunning, the harnessing of her own darkness— all things Death had lovingly taught her. 

Thinking Zeus was still lost in shock, Persephone made the mistake of turning her attention towards movement to her left. Artemis was stepping in front of Demeter, blocking her brother’s target. But it wasn’t until Apollo lowered his bow and Artemis kept hers raised that Persephone fully broke her focus from Zeus. 

“Moonbeam?” The betrayal was minutes old and their past history spanned decades… for a moment the later was all that filled her heart, causing the name to slip out. Artemis’ bow-arm slacked the slightest amount, but those eyes of pale blue did not part from her brother who stood paralyzed by surprise.

Apollo did not move, even when the arrow flew for him.

Persephone knew this was a diversion but still shot the bronze tipped arrow away with a bolt of icy flame. The chill had barely left her when Zeus appeared in her peripheral. With both fists, he slammed down towards her skull and without the time to sprint away, slipped between his legs to emerge behind him. 

The sound of marble cracking ricocheted against the Chamber’s cylindrical wall and left the floor looking as if a massive crater had descended upon it. With his balance off kilter from delivering the blow meant to shatter immortal bone, she formed a whip of flame and sent it flying for his back with all her might. 

Before the lash could connect, Zeus reached behind himself with a speed that caught her off guard and a sound escaped her when unforgiving hands crackling with energy seized either side of her waist. As he rose her from the unholy fissure laden marble, smoke curdled in Persephone’s mouth from the small taste of lightning that was forcibly conducted throughout her body. Scales of her armor warped and cracked beneath his iron grip that further dug them into her sides, some clattered to the broken marble far below her.

A distant shout like a hammer striking an anvil erupted somewhere to her right. That voice grounded her, and when Zeus raised her to the apex of his reach, Persephone forgot about Hades’ plan. The queen set herself aflame. 

With a roar, he released her; but rather than fall in a heap, she clung to him and wrapped her legs around his torso like a lover. Hooked tightly to his front, she extinguished herself only to take both hands and thrust them forward with a scream.

Darkness erupted from her— half flame, half shadow— and she forced it all into the God King’s roaring maw in a torrent of raw power. He staggered and she flung herself back as he collapsed, clawing at his throat. 

Hecate bounded for the fallen king, but he barked weakly at her to stay away the same way he had whenever Athena or any of the others had attempted to assist during the fight. His complexion had a grey pallor and flickered from within at the power she’d forced inside his immortal body. His limbs twitched as the essence within him engaged in an inner battle against her own. 

And then, the King of the Gods rose.

She parted her lips to speak but the air was ripped from her. Though her immortal body did not need breath, speech could not occur without an input. Zeus pinned her with a glowering stare as he prowled closer. A whip of wind struck the backs of her legs, sending her to her knees and another took the form of a coil that fastened her arms to her sides tightly. 

_‘Persephone’_ , Hades’ voice in her mind trembled with restraint. He could decimate Zeus and shadow travel them safely away— he told her as much. 

All she could manage through the panic that threatened to ravage her was a strained, _‘No.’_

Without her voice, Persephone jerked her head and met Artemis’ eyes that had once been sanctuary but now gazed upon her with cold indifference. Persephone thought she saw something like fear in them, but it was likely just childish wishing. The air solidified around her neck as if a brace that forced her head front-facing and locked. A collar of wind. 

He moved so fast that even she did not see it happen. 

Before her mind could catch up, she collided with a marble column across the Chamber floor. Her back struck the pillar with such force that she felt it give way and crack— she flew straight through it. 

With chunks of stone lodged between the scale-less chinks in her armor, Persephone dropped to the ground with a deafening _thud_. 

_‘PERSEPHONE!’_ Hades roared down the bond with a wrath she’d only ever heard him use twice before.

Though in her mind, the voice sounded far, far away. She lay on her side, limbs strewn out limply, just… reeling; unable to move except for her heaving chest. She choked on air as it rushed down her burning throat.

 _‘W-what… what happened?’_ she managed to ask. A shard of Hades’ memory filled her mind that throbbed with a splitting headache. 

He had struck her. Not with air or wind or lightning— but with his fist. A show of power, a decree of strength, a re-establishing of dominance after she’d wounded his pride.

Feeling returned to her and after a few attempts, she rose unsteadily. A blossoming pain at her jaw announced itself— from where flesh had parted beneath the sharpness of a knuckled fist. Ichor warmed her as it slid from the lesion along the edge of her jaw, down her neck, seeping into her collar. 

Slowly, she raised two fingers to the wound and dipped them into parted flesh. The split was deep, the trail of gold continuing to flow steadily.

All around her, the Chamber went silent as death— she would know. Even Zeus faltered at the unease surrounding them like a dense fog. 

Persephone pulled her now drenched fingers away and paused; sending an image to Hades of her licking the ichor away like a panther. It was a question. 

_‘Don’t,’_ his disapproval was clear as was the copious amounts of bloodlust. But he reigned his desires and relented, _‘Remember who is to be the monster.’_

And although her vision was splotched and vision doubled, she glanced to Hephaestus, meeting his concerned features only to recall something he often told her— symbols hold more power than words ever could. She got an idea. 

Painting her clean hand in the ichor on her fingers, she flicked her up at Zeus, holding that glare and, like a stamp, placed the coated palm onto her cheek.

Though she hadn’t been present when Percy had come to Olympus following Nico’s death, the news had traveled fast and all knew the tale of the God Killer who had barged into the Hall of the Gods marked on his cheek with a handprint from Nico’s dying touch. Wide eyed were even the most stoic of the gods at the familiarity of that mark. 

“Are our children nothing more than soldiers born and bred to die?” Her hoarse voice echoed throughout the Chamber. She did not expect a reply nor wait for one, just turned to Hades. Zeus must have sensed the shift in the room as well, because he did not stop her as she walked slowly, padding through her own spilled ichor and shards of scaled armor that littered the cracked floor.

Her strength returned with each step towards him— towards her soul who rose to meet her. Tranquil, unbothered,... regal. He looked not desperate for power, but deserving of it.

She took her time stepping into place beside him then took his outstretched hand. Let all bear witness to true royalty. 

Slowly, so slowly, she slid her fern gaze back to Zeus who stood with her ichor dripping from his knuckles onto the ground he considered to be so sacred.

The Queen of the Underworld nodded to the murderer and a wreath of thorns and carnations became intertwined with that golden crown.

“God King indeed.”

Never had she been more comforted by Hades’ darkness that wrapped around her battered body and whisked them away.

* * *

_…. it is the only thing my son ever asked of me…._

_…. on the river Styx, I promise on this day that should you be struck down, I will treat Perseus Jackson as kin…._

The words pounded against Percy’s mind like the bone-drums of Echidna’s legion. The severed lifebond flared with a ferocity he hadn’t felt since the day it happened and his powers lashed within him violently, shattering that unsettling false peace that had set in upon first landing.

It was as if he were a mortal falling down a waterfall, trying to grab onto the current itself to control his fall. Out. His powers wanted, needed _out_ . It caused his stomach to roll, head to spin, muscles to knot at the strain of keeping it all contained and wrestle it back down, down, down. But for the first time, the writhing thing refused, refused, _refused_ to be chained. Trembling with restraint, his ribs felt like they’d burst from his powers trying to rip through him. Panic overwhelmed him as he realized the losing battle for control.

He was barely coherent enough to register that his body was being supported could just make out the labored breaths of effort. He wanted to help, to walk on his own, but wishing was futile. With all his focus on the losing battle within, he had no strength left. None. Even his head hung limp between his shoulders and his eyelids refused to open all the way. Even so, he tried with all his might to call out a warning, to tell whoever carried him to leave him behind and get away. But he’s got no voice and his breaths were too rapid to string words. All he could do was listen.

“The hallways are changing!”

“Hecate must be altering them with the Mist!”

“Has Hazel taught anyone how to see through it??!”

The words were desperate, that much he could tell. Someone must’ve solved the issue because he was pretty sure they were running again. There was another voice then, much closer and clearer.

“Almost there,” it assured as he was pulled to the left, “hang in there. We’re almost th— ”

They stopped. Percy managed to part his eyes to slits but his vision was mottled with black splotches. What happened next sent a wave of confusion and terror throughout Percy’s entire body. Because as his physical eyelids slid shut, some other set opened and he could see without looking… could feel the presence of one body… two, three, four… body after body filled the space between them and the exit. The ichor held within them practically sang to Percy and as if wearing night vision goggles, he could see against the black canvas of his closed eyelids a map of gold filled veins. Some deeply buried instinct whispered in his mind that the forms belonged to nymphs. Dozens of them were blocking the path of escape— one even felt vaguely familiar. 

_Need to get out, need to get out, need to get out_

He didn’t even know anymore if the words were his own, his trapped instincts, or the morbid powers that yearned for annihilation. The shock of it all caused him to lose concentration on keeping his powers at bay and they seized the opportunity. 

Percy’s hands flung up to clutch his head as a migraine ravaged his skull and the powers surged from him with such force that every single one of his senses were momentarily suppressed. His ears rang and that newfound sight was blank but then he was finally able to open his eyes. There was no one in front of him. But where… 

One second there were nymphs between him and the door, the next, they were gone. _What happened? Where did they go?_ There were cries and wails of horror from somewhere behind him and before his scattered mind could piece together what had happened, a louder, ancient voice yelled out. In a daze, he couldn’t get his head to turn in time to see who was bounding for them from behind. 

A flash of golden light silenced the shrill voice and a desperate “Go!” from one that sounded more familiar. And then there were hands on Percy, pulling him up, up, up and then they were helping him to run again.

One second, nymphs… next second, no nymphs. Nymphs, no nymphs— no nymphs no nymphs no— Where had they gone? What ha— 

His mind began to clear from it’s panicked haze. The pressure in his core lessened and the painfully sharp edge somehow dulled. By the time they burst through the massive double doors, he’s regained control of his legs and he tore across the grass, the wind slicing at his face. Something began slipping into his eyes, blurring his vision that had finally cleared, but he ignored the discomfort.

_Nymphs… no nymphs…_

The familiar feel of wooden planks beneath his bounding feet didn’t bring the usual comfort nor did the mechanical whir of Festus rushing to fulfill Leo’s flurry of requests. 

_Nymphs… no nymphs…_

The Argo lifted into the sky in record time but Percy barely registered the take off and ignored the others, pushing past Jason to get below deck. 

There were shouts behind him but he didn’t care, he had to get away, had to figure out what happened and didn't trust himself to be around anyone. He locked the bedroom door behind him.

Feeling like shattered glass in his lungs, Percy gulped for air as he staggered for the far wall, pressing his back against it and sliding down. The mirror fastened to the back of the door was directly across from him.

Wide, manic eyes gazed back and a face that glittered in the ever-burning candlelight. He leaned forward slightly, angling his head this way and that, watching the light catch on the panes of his gold flecked face. He sat back, saw those sweat laden brows furrowing in confusion. Holding the reflection’s wild gaze, he tried to regain control of his breathing, of his thoughts, of his memory. Bits and pieces from the hallway ebbed and flowed in his mind, some clear others blurry or splotched with black. 

Like the thread of a Fate knitted sweater catching, something snagged. A face— purple in complexion, with wide eyes full of fear… so unlike… so unlike the admiration and generosity Percy had seen when the nymph had given him the piece of aquamarine. 

His powers gave a single lash from within as if in confirmation. As if in triumph. 

“No,” Percy whispered to the empty room as more and more the memories returned. The reflection now looked desperate, petrified, and the golden sheen… he now knew what it was. Ocean spray and yet not. A mist not of trickery and magic, but of _life_. 

_Nymphs… no nymphs…_

His powers bucked wildly, yearning to be set free… to be set free _again_ , he realized. The chime of bloodlust rang like a death knell in his mind, and with it, his essence sang. 

The reflection turned pale beneath the gold and with trembling hands he frantically tried to wipe away the ichor. It rubbed off in streaks, staining his palms, flecking his hair. His breathing grew shallow and his head went light as his muscles began to ache but _more, more, more_ the chiming grew louder, _louder_ and with it, Hades’ impossibly even voice— 

_…. anything… happen to you…. perseus jackson… kin_

Even in death, Nico had saved him. Nico had saved him _again_. And… and here he sat… mist that had once been innocent nymphs now clinging to his features, his hair, his clothes, his throat. Faintly glowing with immortal life, he looked like a god. 

Percy threw himself to the side, bracing his weight on one arm as he emptied the contents of his stomach with such force that left him weak.

There was a banging at his door, concerned shouts belonging to more than one demigod but he didn’t have the energy to speak, to scream, or even to cry as he rubbed at his face and surrendered to gravity, letting it roll him off his side to lay flat on his back against the worn floorboards.

There was a burning flush on his cheeks and a violating, feverish heat that spread across him like a rash; a layer of sweat covered his face, melding with the ichor, and he wanted it to stop he just wanted everything to stop but his heart was beating too fast, too fast, too fast and he didn’t know what to do just that he wanted it to stop— 

And for once, his prayers were answered. 

* * *

Zeus stormed from the hall, the air rippling away from him in a blundering wind. He tried to rip the thorn vines woven in his crown but they were tangled in his hair and the unnaturally sharp thorns pressed into his fingers. He was across the palace in minutes then bounding up the spiral staircase, stone steps cracking beneath the weight of his rage. A rage that only grew with the ascent. 

The vines finally broke free just as he threw his weight into the door. He breached the threshold in a flurry of bone hewn thorns and pink petals. 

Inside, standing at the center of the dimly lit room, The Fates were already waiting. Three sets of eyes flicked to him— perfectly in sync. 

The Third drug her eyes up and down him with supreme disdain then said with a smirk, “That went well.”

Zeus was scatterbrained with fury, it was all he could do to growl, “What side are you on?” 

Despite being more than a head shorter than him, the First looked down her nose and practically spat, “We’re on _no_ side. No matter what happens, we three will outlast you all.”

“That’s what infuriates you isn’t it,” said the Third who crossed her arms, “that we cannot be bribed nor threatened?”

He was not given the opportunity to respond, for the Second cleared her throat and the other two pinned him with eyes of such ferocity that even he had the sense not to interrupt the most gentle Fate. 

“We bow to none but the universe, your majesty; obey nothing but time itself.”

When she finished, Zeus reined his temper and made to speak, only to be cut off by the First’s merciless glare. “So high and mighty are you, comin’ in here accusin’ us of foul play when we warned you.” She turned to her left, “Did we not warn him?”

The Third’s mouth widened into a smile like a knife wound, serrated by her ragged teeth. “I do recall somethin’ along the lines of, ‘If you continue on this path, you’ll only ensure your own demise'.”

All three Fates nodded to one another. The Second added, “We even told you of the second God Killer’s awakening, and of his vengeance.”

“Why did you all come here? To jeer and taunt?”

A collective huff from each entity as if a flame being snuffed out. “We came to tell you we’ll no longer be answer’n your calls,” the First turned her mottled face to regard the drab room. “If you wish our audience, you’ll come to us at the farm.”

Before Zeus could do something that would take centuries to atone for, he spun around. His hand seized the door handle when a voice made him pause.

“Majesty?” 

He turned with furrowed brows. Only the Second remained. 

“Tartarus still calls for you.”

Zeus did not stay to see her vanish, simply burst out the door. Her voice chased him down the stairwell. 

_“Can you hear it?”_

_“Can you hear it?”_

The door at the bottom of the stairs blew open and he slammed it behind him. Minor gods who had yet to depart and servants alike flung themselves against the walls of the hallways he stormed through. 

“Father?”

The title halted Zeus in his tracks. He wiped the ichor from his knuckles and flicked away a stray thorn poking the nape of his neck before plastering on a smile and turning. “How are you, my d—”

“You said she wouldn’t be attending.”

It was an effort not to bristle— he was nearing his limit of disrespectful females who felt they had a right to speak to their king however they saw fit. Through his teeth, he repented, “I did not know.”

For once he was telling the truth. She uncrossed her arms and her hands went to the leather quiver strap across her front. He glanced around to ensure none heard before urging her closer. 

“My centaur personally delivered the Council summons to the Underworld. And he returned with word from Hades and Persephone, as well as several palace servants, that they were repulsed by the invitation and refused to attend.”

“Then why did they come?” Artemis’ fingers tightened around the leather. “How did she know about your involvement with the God Killer’s death? How did she know you had talked to the other gods? And how did she sound so sure of herself when accusing you of scheming for personal gain?”

“All questions I have been asking myself,” he admitted; it was no lie. “Someone must have relayed false information to her and convinced them both to come.”

His daughter pursed her lips in concentration, mulling it over, but it was at the sight of her bow that peaked out behind her right shoulder that realization dawned on Zeus. 

“Artemis?”

“Hm?”

“Apollo disobeyed my order to stop the demigods, didn’t he?”

She nodded. “Well yes but he wouldn’t have—“

“What did he do, exactly? I was… preoccupied and was unable to see the chaos.”

“Temporarily blinded Hermes, infected Ares, was prepared to shoot Demeter…,” her voice trailed off. Then she met his eyes and her tone turned almost apologetic as she said, “You know how he is… passionate, free spirited. Conforming to rule and bending to order is not in his nature. You said you tried convincing him before the meeting, right? I will speak with him, maybe he will listen to me.”

Zeus didn’t notice the guilt that flashed across her features, for his mind was replaying her words. His smile went broader than the Third Fates’ had. 

“No, I will speak with my son.” He clasped her shoulder, beaming. “I am proud of the strength, courage, and loyalty you displayed today, my child. I wish you would visit the palace more often though I understand why you keep distant… it breaks my heart to see how your mother treats you. But I hope you know that I miss you dearly, and you are always welcome. This is your home, after all.”

She tried to hide how much his praise affected her, but Zeus caught the faint yet genuine smile. He released his hand to clap her on the back, careful not to disturb her prized weapon.

“Go, celebrate with your hunters. We will discuss what to do about this ichor oath nonsense in the days to come.”

Artemis nodded then caught herself and bowed deeply. “As you wish, your majesty.”

She turned away and Zeus stood there smiling warmly until she turned the corner for the palace entrance. When he could hear the unmistakable boom of the doors closing, the joyous façade contorting his features died. 

The King of the Gods grinded his jaw and clenched his fist that flickered with jumping ribbons of electricity. 

There was much to discuss with his eldest son. 

* * *

{TW}  
  


Apollo threw his favorite lyre out the window of his bedchamber. It landed in the hovering chariot with a clatter that pained his very soul but he did not stop the mad dash of hurtling his most prized possessions through.

It was only a matter of time before the king realized all he’d done. The very moment Hades and Persephone had slipped away into a pocket of darkness, Apollo had snuck from the Chamber of Council and sprinted for his rooms in the East Wing. The hastily scraped together plan was to gather his belongings and flee— to where, he did not know. As far away from Olympus as he could get. He could trust no one.

A painted vase, a leather bound journal, a box of tinctures— so many memories attached to each object, for all of them were gifts— some centuries old… millennia, even. 

With the last item in his mental rolodex safely in the chariot, he climbed out the window, relishing the fresh air that tasted of freedom as he reached for the leather reins. 

Being the sentimental creature he was, he took one last look inside with a bittersweet smile at the space that had been his sanctuary from the rest of the palace’s wretchedness. He made to look away but something wedged deep in the back of his heart cried out. 

The necklace. 

_No, leave it_ , his conscience warned. But Apollo had stopped listening to his conscious long ago.

Even as Artemis’ words to Persephone that declared allegiance to their father blared in his ears, even as visions of her aiming an arrow at his brow flashed before his eyes, Apollo leapt from the chariot and through the stone hole. 

He bolted through the main room, into his bedroom and nearly shattered the drawer’s handle that he pulled at. 

A single object had been lovingly placed inside; hidden away to keep it safe… and to keep the memories locked away. Artemis had given it to her after… after Icarus had died. When he’d recovered from his father’s punishment, the necklace had been her reminder to him that he was not alone. 

_We will always have each other. You’re stuck with me, brother, until the end of time._

Strung onto a thin chain of pure gold, was a chunk of what mortals might call rubble. But this was no mere rock.

Apollo took the chain carefully, lifting the necklace from the drawer. He made quick work of the clasp and fastened it around his neck, tucking the small piece of the Moon beneath his armor. The memory of his sister releasing her arrow was knocked away as the arrow itself had been by Persephone’s blast of dark flame. He could think about all of that later, there was no time to drown in the betrayal. 

With a nod of satisfaction that he now had everything he could not live without, Apollo closed the drawer and hurried back into the main room with a smile on his face. A smile that died at the sight of his father standing in front of the window. 

Apollo was paralyzed with fear at the gleam in the eye of the God King. That golden crown glinted in the light of freedom that streamed through the window as he crossed the distance between them.

The paralysis did not break until a hand was wrapped around his neck. 

Apollo fought back with every ounce of strength that his rising panic would allow as he was dragged through the room, but his father’s hold was unrelenting. They entered a secret passageway and realization dawned. He knew where he was being taken.

Though his body began to tremble and he went limp, unable to keep resisting, he did not beg. Familiar shackles were clasped over his limbs and still he did not beg. He did not beg, no. Not even when the bolt of lightning that illuminated the wildness in his father’s eyes struck him. He did not beg when the smell of burning flesh filled the air before he even had time to register the strike connecting with his back. 

As god of the sun, he was capable of withstanding more lightning blasts than any other immortal entity. His greatest curse, and what he could only imagine as the Fates’ greatest joke— he’d practically been born as an outlet for his father’s rage.

He blacked out for meager seconds at a time, never going fully out of consciousness. But he didn’t care— he’d endure it all. Because the severity of punishment meant that Will and the other demigod’s had escaped. 

His son was safe.

Apollo would’ve laughed had his lungs not been so busy ripping themselves apart at his unending screams.

* * *

Hearing Artemis support Zeus, watching her turn on her brother, on Persephone, on the demigods she loved and cared for… it was too much for Hera to bare. She could still hear that deafening whistle of the arrow that had sliced through the air for her son.

Persephone had accused Artemis of only caring about her hunters, but Hera had seen the truth in her daughter's eye— it had all been for Zeus. Out of wanting to please him; earn his pride and respect.

It made no sense though, Hera had done her best work in making Artemis despise the palace, Olympus, the gods, royalty, males and yet— 

What had he done to her? What had he said to change her mind?

There were a trillion things Hera wanted to say to her daughter that she’d collected and compiled over the years but never spoken. But now, staggering for the edge of her empty bed, Hera cursed herself for staying quiet. Maybe if she’d revealed the love trapped within her, maybe if she’d spent these cold and lonely centuries holding her daughter close and telling her that wolf-wild heart was not made to surrender,… then maybe Artemis would not have fallen prey to Zeus’ empty, soulless, self-serving praise.

The queen lowered herself onto the edge of her bed and wrapped lithe arms around her torso as her mind began to spiral. The Chamber of Council meeting had been utter chaos and so much had happened that would change the course of history forever, and yet the thing her mind recalled with the most clarity was the Dark Queen. 

Hera recalled watching with an adder's glare as Persephone had made her grand entrance and strode for Hades who had remained standing for his queen. For eons, Hera had done many things. Taken every hit, schemed nearly every plan, remained invisibly chained within the palace walls without voiced complaint. She had committed unforgivable atrocities at Zeus’ side, and yet she had never, _never_ , looked at her husband like that. With love. And never, in all her days even at the ceremony of their union, had Zeus looked at Hera as Hades had to his queen— unyielding admiration and passion and respect and something too eternal to be considered love. Despite herself, Hera couldn’t help but wonder what such things would feel like— what it might be like to feel the gentle caress of Death rather than the violence of the sky. 

She was suffocating on it all when a door burst open. Not the main entrance, but a servant passage. Hera stifled a jolt of alarm, but it was only a nymph— one of her personal handmaidens. She recognized the shorn amber hair and heavily freckled features— this nymph had been present at Hephaestus’ birth… she’d helped support Hera’s week frame all the way to the edge of the godlands and watched the babe fall. Hera clutched herself tighter at the vile memory, her arms too empty as they constricted. 

“Majesty,” the nymph panted as she ran across the cold marble floor before clutching the queen by her shoulders.

"Don't touch me!" Hera cried out, voice shrill, startling even herself. The servant jolted back as if burned.

"It's the king, ma'am, he… he t— "

"Leave me,” she meant to sound commanding, but it came out more like a plea, “just.. just leave me be.”

She didn’t want to hear his name, didn't want to hear his title, not while she was warring with the realization that he'd gotten to her daughter. Her lips were in a thin line to keep herself from sobbing aloud though nothing could be done for the tears that welled in her eyes. She'd never felt so cold, so empty. Everything she'd ever worked for was for nothing. In getting to her daughter, he'd won. He would _always_ win. The tears flowed freely, removing the powder in streaks to reveal the truth beneath.

The nymph watched as powder was washed away beneath crystal tears to reveal purple and blue bruising. She knew better than to mention it— more than one nymph had been sentenced to death by the queen for doing so. Instead, she shook her head, eyes wild and persistent. "He's taken Apollo, m'lady."

At that, Hera stilled; even the tears on her cheeks paused in their flow. "What do you mean? Taken where?" 

The nymph bit her lip and then— "You know where.”

“No,” Hera breathed, pleading, “no no no… ”

She slid down the side of the bed onto the floor and her muscles seized. Paralyzed by fear, her breathing echoed in cotton filled ears, her racing heart beating so loudly that she clamped two shaking hands to her ears and wailed.

 _Zeus is going to kill him_ , her subconscious whispered with such conviction— Hera believed it. She had witnessed Apollo’s defiance in the Chamber. At the time, she had never been so proud of her son, but now…

_He is as good as dead_

The servant dropped to her knees, throwing decorum to the wind, and grabbed the broken queen. She held on even as the goddess thrashed, even as she clawed and tried to push away from the touch. Those nails scraped at her freckled skin, leaving streaks that burned, but she held on tightly and didn’t let go, pressing the God Queen's ear to her own frantic heart. She forced her own breathing to slow— her pulse with it. And with the small amount of power within her— barely a drop, but a blessing from the planet’s core— she warmed her arms and the arctic queen held within. 

"Ma'am?" her voice wavered with fear as reality struck and she realized her actions would likely get her killed. She'd been forced to witness this very goddess kill her own friends for far less. But she couldn't let go. She just couldn't. And when she tried to pull away, Hera gripped tightly to the sheer pleats of her uniform with a trembling fist.

"He's going to kill my boy," she breathed as if a hallowed breeze wafting over a field of the slain.

"No," the handmaiden said, shaking her head. "No, Apollo is alive. Perhaps not for long, but he is alive and Zeus has just locked himself in his private chambers in the East Tower of the palace." She swallowed thickly. "A group of my friends— consorts— volunteered themselves to him as a diversion."

Hera shook her head and curled tighter into meager swaths of her dress. "He's going to kill my boy."

Decades of anger filled the servant then and with every ounce of courage she could muster, she placed a hand on the queen’s shoulder and shook, "You listen to me. My friends are in that tower right now sacrificing their bodies and dignity so that you can free the only god in this cursed palace brave enough to confront the king about our treatment."

Hera pushed away and sat up to stare at the nymph. She blinked.

The servant went flush but rose and looked down as she extended a hand. "Pull yourself together and follow me."

Without wiping her tear stained cheeks, Hera took the warm hand. The servant gently slipped under her arm to support the queen's weight the moment she began to sway on weak legs then led them across the room quickly as she could.

And together, the servant and the queen of bruises and sacrifice slipped into the hidden passageway.

The journey through winding, narrow passages was a blur to Hera— the only solidity being the nymph’s strong arms that guided her— and her reality went out of focus until they reached their destination. 

Both servant and queen let out horrified gasps in the stale air that reeked of sweat and ichor and burnt flesh. While the God King ravaged himself in the East Tower… 

A cage.

Zeus had put her son in a _cage_.

She lost the ability to move, to think, to breathe. The nymph broke free of the trance, spurred by the knowledge of what her friends were sacrificing as they stood here agape, and surged for the wire door. It wasn’t even locked. 

Hera read the smugness in the action— that his punishment had been so complete that his son could not escape despite the ease with which the door could swing open. He had dangled freedom in front of her son.

With the door open wide, both servant and queen did their best to remove him gently. 

“The chariot,” the nymph’s eyes were wide, her words a rush of air, “we must get him to it and—” 

Her flurry of instruction was cut off by something too ruined to be considered a voice. 

“M-mother?” 

Hera dropped to her knees beside him. With both eyes clamped shut— one swollen over, the other sliced in a jagged line— he could only feel her presence.

“Mot… her, it h-hurts… every...thing _hurts.”_

“I know,” her voice strained and her heart wept, “I know my child.”

From his other side, the nymph furrowed her brows. She whispered, “Can you teleport us to his chambers? Another servant told me the chariot is hovering just outside a window.”

The sight of her boy broken beyond recognition was enough to annihilate the universe, but that could wait. For now, she gave a tight nod and closed her eyes. When they opened a moment later, the three were atop a soft Persian rug. 

Hera flicked her gaze to the window beside them where the chariot was indeed waiting. She rose and noticed it was filled with belongings. 

“He was trying to escape,” the nymph said as if she could hear Hera’s thoughts. The shock left her face and became that of determination. “There’s room for him still, we can lay him beside it all.”

Hera nodded and turned back for her son who hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Apollo, Apollo?” She reached out with nothing but her voice, afraid to touch him again and cause more pain. Thankfully, his head slowly tilted towards her voice with a wince. “Go to the hilltop where Icarus would wait for you at sundown. Do you understand?”

Apollo’s breaths sounded like an instrument— pulling gasping, wheezy notes from his lungs. She had no choice but to clasp her hands to the sides of his face. He flinched, a weak plea on his split lip, but when his swollen eye opened a fraction, the iris was clear.

“The hilltop, Apollo, do you remember the hilltop?”

She only knew of it from the poetry he had written. Unable to interact with him as much as she yearned, Hera had gotten to know her son through his art. The hilltop was a repeating theme in the songs, poetry, ballads, and paintings he created. In one such, he’d said that he would be able to find it even in death. And now, she was staking his life to that single line. For a moment, she was filled with doubt and glanced frantically to the nymph, hoping she might have a better idea, but then— 

“Icarus…” 

Though he likely could not see, she nodded with tears in her eyes once more. “Yes, yes go there. Go there and wait.”

He nodded slowly— it was all she needed to see before gesturing to the servant. The two somehow managed to situate him into the chariot and the nymph wove the reins between Apollo’s bleeding fingers. There was no time for goodbyes.

When the chariot vanished in a streak of golden light, Hera whorled on the servant. “Get word to Hades, I do not care how. The Underworld is the only safe place for Apollo now.”

With a nod, she made to leave, but Hera seized her by the wrist. “Do not say the message comes from me. He will think it a trap.”

Another nod, but Hera does not release her for a moment more. “Thank you.” 

Two words Hera had not spoken in… she could not recall. It was all she could manage, but the nymph smiled warmly, a genuineness to the curve of her lip. She curtsied and hurried away. 

Alone again, Hera wiped Apollo’s ichor off her palms frantically, willing the stains away from her fabrics and the rug until there was no trace of her son’s escape. 

The Queen of the Gods stood in the center of the room. She turned her head to the window, her eyes landing on the East Tower. She beheld the structure, could imagine the sights and sounds trapped within that were keeping her husband occupied.

With an uneven yet deep breath, Hera closed her eyes. When she opened them, it was to the darkness of the dungeons. 

* * *

The door gave way in a burst of splinters and shredded planks beneath Frank’s claws and the others rushed in behind him.

Annabeth was the first to enter and cried out, “Percy!”

Eyes closed, he was laying flat on the floor and didn’t move despite the chorus of worried voices. But what was most startling wasn’t the tang in the air or the sight of his unconscious form, but rather how his right hand was resting on his chest. Positioned directly above his heart.

Everyone moved aside as Will surged forward. The master healer was already kneeling beside Percy’s prone form with two fingers pressed to Percy’s jugular before Annabeth had a chance to process what that hand on his chest could mean.

A tense moment passed, then another. Will ripped the bandages from his hands and then raised higher on his knees, wounded palms clasped together and faintly glowing as he began chest compressions.

“Will?” Annabeth choked out.

But the healer was muttering to himself under his breath. Not muttering, she realized… but counting.

“Will,” she tried again, her voice quiet yet strong despite the dread that filled her. “Is there a pulse?”

The son of Apollo ignored her question, instead speaking quickly to Jason without looking up, “Do you have control over the voltage of your power?”

Jason nodded quickly, then voiced his answer when he realized Will wasn’t looking.

“Good,” the healer said with sweat on his brow. He took a moment to press two fingers into Percy’s neck again, never stopping the compressions. “I need you to shock him.”

Without time for hesitation, Jason stepped forward and knelt down. He’d long since learned to use his powers for defibrillation, having realized the advantage in battle or quests during his time at Camp Jupiter. But he’d only actually done it a few times, and this was Percy… no matter what he’d done during their escape from the palace, no matter how horrifying… this was Percy. This was his friend. 

It was an effort to keep his hands from tremoring as he raised them, but he reined his fear and focused his mind. 

The air in the room shifted as Jason pressed his palms together. With a deep breath, he pulled them apart slow and controlled, drawing out a rod of electricity too diluted to be a real bolt of lightning. It lengthened between each palm and he willed it to the necessary current. His chest and face illuminated with the cast of that holy glow and then the rod snapped— frantic bits of energy rushed to cover his hands individually, jumping between his fingers, crackling over the webbing and knuckles. 

He nodded, “Ready.”

Will was panting but nodded back and said, “Three, two, _one.”_

In perfect synchronicity, Will removed his hands at the same time Jason thrust his down.

Percy’s entire body jolted and his back arched off the floor, eyelids fluttering. But then he came crashing back down.

_“Again.”_

After another countdown, Jason delivered the second, and this time, Percy jerked up into a seated position, clutching his chest and swallowed gulps of air. Those sea green eyes were wild and frantic, but they were _open_. Leo rushed forward, catching the God Killer as his weakened body fell for the wooden planks.

Relief flooded Annabeth with such force that she didn’t see what happened next; for her vision went to black and she collapsed into Piper’s solid arms.

* * *

Dazed with grief for all she’d lost— a daughter falling prey to manipulation, a son victim to the same pain as her— Hera drifted for the cell door.

It looked so much like the cage Apollo had been left to die in. Her entire life was cages. The palace had never been anything more than a cage and yet she’d never felt so trapped. 

“I don’t want to be queen,” she whispered, she roared, to no one but herself and these walls that seemed to close in on her. “I don’t want to rule. I am done with the schemes and the cages and the death. I am done with the _pain.”_

With both hands she grips onto the bars of the door like a lifeline. The chill that bolts through her at the touch pulls her sharply back to reality. She removes her palms and staggers back a step, chiding herself aloud, “No no no what are you thinking?”

Because if Zeus didn’t realize it was she who had rescued Apollo then this would surely reveal her treason against the crown. Whenever he found Apollo gone he’d take it out on her, that she was sure of. But this… she didn’t think she would survive the punishment of this as well. And even if she did, he would make her watch as he slaughtered Apollo. 

Her body trembled in anticipation of what the night would bring and she felt vile as the thought crossed her mind that maybe he would be tired after the servant’s friend's distraction. The thought made her weak with self hatred. 

“I don’t want to be queen,” she declared to the silence.

Not whatever she was supposedly right now, but _queen—_ Queen of the Gods— as she’d been silently scheming all these years. But now, she wanted none of it. She’d rather jump from the palace roof into a vat of molten Stygian than spend another century trapped within its walls. 

But no, no she had to stay alive; if only to ensure her children would be safe. That meant she could not go to Persephone, could not free Hestia, could not step out of line— no one could save her. No one could protect her. So she would do what she did best.

She would wait.

* * *

Even when the world was ending and her reality threatened to crumble, Persephone could always find momentary peace and laughter with Alaric. 

Upon returning to their domain, Hades had helped Persephone into the dining room and called for a nymph. Two had appeared moments later, one with an anonymous message of great urgency to seek out Apollo, and the other— Alaric.

Hades hadn’t wanted to leave her, but both she and the meadow nymph had convinced him she was alright. 

And now, Alaric was methodically removing each individual scale that had penetrated her torso from when Zeus had grabbed her, driving the shattered pieces in. Contorted awkwardly in the chair to aid his hunt, his lanky frame worked quickly and she felt more whole with each clink of scale falling onto the tray. Her jaw had long since healed shut but the memory was not so easily erased.

The handprint she’d placed on her cheek was dried and flaking, yet she hesitated to remove it. Alaric did not mention it, and for that she was grateful.

“Remind me next time I go to the surface to fetch you extra pastries. The blueberry ones are your favorite, right?”

He chuckled but nodded, the light green streaks of hair catching in the light of the chandelier hung above them. He paused his ministrations and stood up, pinning emerald eyes deeper than her own onto her stomach. 

“That’s the last of them for this section,” he said to himself, then gave her a smile. “Time to rotate.”

She obeyed, leaning forward to cross her arms and lay them on the glossy table top before arching her back at his request.

“Must’ve been quite a show.”

“Oh, you know how it is up there,” with her clean cheek resting atop her folded arms, her voice was muffled. “Never a dull moment on Olympus.”

He must’ve heard the bitterness in those words, for the pricking and extracting stopped.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

She managed a smile and angled herself to throw him a wink. “Later, I promise.”

The subject was dropped, but there was no judgment or tension in the air. The coaxing of scales from her spine continued, then along her shoulder. For a few moments, she listened in silence, emptying her mind of everything but the present.

_Clink_

_Clink_

_Clink_

Then the tray rattled as it was shaken, the scales shifting on its surface at the movement.

“Shall I save these?”

She shook her head, waving over her shoulder. “ ‘Phestus already sent word he’ll make more.”

After giving permission for her to sit back, he moved in front again and grimaced at the contents of the tray disapprovingly. “Stronger this time, I hope?” 

“I doubt when he built me that armor he’d planned on it being used in a one-on-one fight against Zeus,” she said with a smirk."

Alaric barked with laughter, “Well, forgive me for saying, ma’am, but he must not know you as well as you think if ‘battling the King of the Gods’ didn’t cross his mind.” 

“Well then, why don’t you sit in on the new one’s creation? Make sure it’s up to your standards.”

“I humbly accept, your majesty,” he dipped into a dramatically low bow.

It was her turn to fill the room with laughter and then she reached forward and plucked a single bent scale. “Souvenir,” she declared and pocketed it.

Alaric grinned approvingly then jerked his chin to the tray. “And the rest?”

“Hmm, why don’t you see if anyone could get any use out of them? Just not Gulania, she’s got enough trinkets, it’s a wonder she’s able to traverse that room of hers.”

With a tilt of his head and a smile he dismissed himself, “As you wish, ma’am.” 

She almost asked for him to stay— for he took with him the distraction of lightheartedness— but stopped herself. Instead, she leaned back into her chair and flipped the scale as if a coin. Bent and stained, it wobbled in the air and shuddered as it descended into her awaiting palm. 

If only Alaric could remove the shard wedged deep within her soul. Without her permission, her mind drifted.

No matter how calloused, Artemis’ hands had always been steady. It was for this self confidence that had first drawn Persephone to the huntress. No matter how feral her heart, the entire universe she held within herself held its breath when she knocked an arrow.

Persephone had long since learned that once Artemis pulled back the string of her bow, almost nothing would stop her from taking aim and releasing the lethal harp. And that’s what Zeus had done. It was he who had pulled back the string in Artemis’ mind and tensed the bow of her heart and knocked an arrow of loyalty. Zeus must have done it as a precaution in case she dared show her face. He had turned her Moonbeam against her. 

Persephone caught the scale and closed her hand around it tightly until she felt it bite.

 _"So willing to indulge your anger,"_ the memory of her mother's voice chided. _"Lightly, my dear, you must tread the earth lightly, as if an autumn leaf. Do not disrupt the land."_

But Persephone despised such ideas— had no desire to be light as a leaf on a soft vernal breeze. She wanted to reach into the sky with her own two hands and rearrange the stars. 

She rose, scowling at the memory and her clenched fist.

From behind her, someone cleared their throat eloquently. And because it was him, she turned. Because it was him, she did not swallow the lump in her throat or wipe the hurt from her eyes or conceal the rapid pulse and flushed cheeks. Hades crossed the distance to wrap her in his arms that way only he could— in a way that felt as though she were a star and he a void of darkness that embraced her flickering light. 

When he held her like this— his shadows tracing calming whorls across her skin flush with too many emotions to discern— she felt safe. 

Her throat was too raw for speech and she relished in the silence, so she nuzzled closer. That's when she noticed his scent was wrong— tainted. Though shadows and fog and darkness were a part of his very essence, her mate never smelled like this… like smoke.

She found the strength to tilt her head up, and found his obsidian eyes already on her. She scrunched her nose and raised a brow in question.

_'Apollo is in the medical wing.'_

Her anguish ebbed and the heavy weight of dread replaced it. “How bad?”

Ancient malice warped the perfect planes of his face, but then they smoothed. _'Gulania and Phillip are gathering supplies,'_ he offered instead. _'And Tas is calling for more assistance.'_

“We should go help”

Unhurried, he brought a hand to her cheek, wiping away the drying tears and flaking ichor with a gentle swipe of his thumb. She leaned into the touch and could feel that sliver of scar tissue within his palm. The ichor oath.

_'Hades.'_

_'Hm?'_

“We should go help.”

His eyes searched hers, his head canted slightly, as if weighing whether or not he should forget about the wounded god in favor of hunting down the Goddess of the Hunt for the betrayal she'd committed. And for the hurt she’d bestowed upon his queen. 

_'Another time, perhaps,'_ he said in answer to his own question. 

With that and nothing more, he shadowtraveled them to the examination room. When the darkness bled away, every wrinkle of wild rage Hades had smoothed out beneath that cold touch crumpled back ten-fold at the sight of Apollo. Apollo, God of Many, who lay in immortal tatters.

 _‘The Shades sent word that Artemis told Zeus of Apollo's role in the demigods’ escape.’_ Hades nodded to the bed and general chaos surrounding the fallen god as dozens of Shades moved around him. _‘This must have been the punishment.’_

He saw every emotion that slashed across her face and nodded with a whisper, “We’ll take care of him, go.”

Not an order; a favor. They both turned— he for the dying god, she for the door.

It took her just minutes to reach the forest. A forest in the Underworld that she had created herself— each tree and bit of moss a labor of love and care. 

Persephone knew the way to it’s center well, for it was worn into her very essence. When the densely packed birch trees gave way to an open grove, she stopped.

The ferns that covered the ground, the belladonna flowers that grew among them, the single bolder and fallen tree… it was all a recreation of the forest in the mortal lands where Artemis and she had once spent endless days.

But here, in the recreation of memory, the plants were mostly bare of their deep purple berries since she often came here to think and would eat them for their mortal toxicity that would bite at her senses and clear her mind. This was a spot of sanctity for her, a place of peace and refuge, to hide from reality and the weight of immortality. 

She reached down and ripped a berry from within the thicket of leaves and blossoms. Bringing it up to her face, she crushed it, watching the rich purple liquid stain her fingers. 

That’s what Artemis had turned herself into— a stain on Persephone’s past. 

Without sparing another look at the grove that had become something almost holy to her, Persephone turned her back on the memories she’d worked so hard to hold onto, to preserve, to keep infinite time from taking away. 

She stood like that, eyes clamped shut, feeling nothing but the chill lap at her back and shoulders and shadowfire engulfed the grove.

When the crackling ceased and silence of death settled the dark flames, Persephone drew a steadying breath, squared her shoulders, and slowly made the trek out of the woods.

The scent of burning belladonna was trapped in her nose, clinging to the fabrics she wrapped tighter around herself, and hot, burning tears welled in eyes of fern green.

  
  



End file.
